#law x star

[moonj-fool]

woaow is that star from the hit show one piece

(little screenshot edit. it's my first one so it look kinda goofy)

[sol-insidious]

Post-Episode 5 reaction

[madthetruemad]

There is No Law that Emperors Must be Fair

Emperor ! Jing Yuan x Princess ! Reader

Chapter 12 | Jing Yuan

Summary | You are set to marry the Emperor, Jing Yuan. In order to break the engagement, you stage an accident and fake having amnesia. But now, your own cruel, cold, and distant fiancé, who seemed to not want anything to do with you, is now acting all lovey dovey!

want to be a part of the taglist? then pls go to taglist ^-^

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“Good evening, princess.”

Without much time to relax or breathe when Blade left to go to the Emperor, another had entered the infirmary. You recognized him easily. He was the main physician that cared for people here. Luocha.

Bringing up the blankets close to your face as a sort of barrier between you and the man, you nodded to him, “h- hello… are you… that Emperor that that guard had mentioned?”

Luocha chuckled as he came to your bedside, “no, no. I’m a doctor, a healer of sorts. Now, princess, how are you feeling? Is there any pain anywhere?”

Taking a moment to think things over, you were glad that everything was working so well so far. Though, truthfully, you haven’t once talked to Luocha before, so you weren’t sure just how perceptive he was, so the amnesia act must go on.

“A little… mainly in my legs, back, and a dull throb in my head.”

Luocha nodded, “and can you remember anything?”

You shook your head, “I- I can’t,” for more of an effective you tried to think of something sad so your eyes could start watering, and just as the tears started to form Luocha was quick to try to comfort you which was surprising to say the least.

“Don’t cry, princess, we don’t have to talk about your lost memory, alright? Let’s focus on something else.”

You nodded and just as Luocha brought out a small handkerchief, probably to wipe your tears, but before he could hand it to you, the infirmary door opened again, and Blade stepped through… with the Emperor coming in right after.

“Why is she crying,” Blade asked.

Luocha bowed, “I’m afraid it’s my fault, I asked her if she could remember anything, and I guess all the stress has finally gotten to her. My apologies.”

Without a word, Jing Yuan stepped forward and took the handkerchief from Luocha’s hand, and when he walked over to you, you couldn’t deny the fear that strikes through your veins as you scooted away, your back hitting the headboard as Jing Yuan sat on the edge of the bed and reached for you.

But all you could see was the striking arch of his blade swinging down.

However, instead of feeling that cold, electrifying metal glide straight through your body like it was made of paper, you felt a warm, calloused hand gently cup your cheek. The handkerchief cloth then lightly being applied to your dampened skin.

You trembled within his hold as he wiped away your tears. A part of you still disbelieving as he gently cleaned you up. It was such a stark contrast to your other meetings with him.

Once your tears were dried, Jing Yuan tossed the handkerchief back to Luocha, “leave us.”

Bowing almost immediately, Luocha took his leave. Though, Blade hesitated for a moment.

“That goes for you as well, Blade.”

Blade only gave a stiff nod before leaving. Your mind was a bit confused at the interaction. Blade has never done that before. He was always quick to follow Jing Yuan’s orders after all.

When you and Jing Yuan were finally alone, you half expected him to tell you to drop the act, but the words never came. Instead, his steel-like focus was solely on you, and not once were you able to stop your shaking, trembling form because of it.

His hand that was cupping your cheek moved to gently caress your face before he let his palm fall away from you.

“Princess.”

“Y- yes,” your voice wobbled slightly.

“Do you know how I am?”

“The- the Emperor?”

He smiled at your answer, “and my name?”

You shook your head, “no,” that one word was a mere quiet whisper that fell from your lips. This was way different than before. Not once had Jing Yuan ever asked anyone to leave you two alone. There was always a third-party present.

“My name is Jing Yuan.”

You nodded.

“Do you know your name?”

“I don’t… everyone only calls me by that princess title.”

Jing Yuan chuckled softly at your response and told you what your name was, and before he could say anything else, you spoke first even though that same fear still coursed through you.

“Is it true?”

“What is?”

“That- that we’re supposed to be getting married to one another?”

He hummed at that question, “we are, yes. You’re my fiancé, in fact.”

His hands moved down to your own, his fingertips lightly brushing at your knuckles as he tried to coax you to let go of the blanket, and once you did, he let his fingers slip into your palm before intertwining both his and your fingers together.

“I- I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t remember anything much less being your fiancé.”

“That’s alright, I’m sure your memory will come back in time.”

You panicked then, was he really dead set on this marriage then?! You didn’t let your inner turmoil show as you looked at your intertwined hands, “how did we end up together?”

“I met you at your father’s castle. The moment I saw you, I knew you were the one.”

You resisted the urge to pull your hand away from his.

“Did I tell you much about myself? Anything you can remember? I- I mean, if you want to tell me, of course. It’s just- it might help me remember,” you rambled a bit, your nerves quickly acting up, but Jing Yuan was quick to ease you, surprising as it sounds.

“I know that your favorite color is (color), and that you like to eat (favorite food),” he started to list off a few things, each detail surprising you more than before because… he was right on all of them, but you never told him any of this, so how-? How was it that he seemed to know you so well?!

And as your conversation with the Emperor continued, Luocha had returned at some point to prescribe you some sort of pain relief drink that you will need to take every morning and even said that you will be able to go back to your room. Which was a blessing, well, until Luocha left once more, and Jing Yuan stood up as well just as the infirmary door closed.

“Shall we?”

His hand was still intertwined with your own as you nodded. He was probably going to lead you back to your room, much to your relief. However, as you stood up the pain in your legs was way more than you previously thought as you left out a small cry of pain and stumbled forward.

Luckily, Jing Yuan had already caught you before you could fall face first to the floor, and before you could apologize, he had lifted you up causing a gasp to leave your lips as he moved to hold you in a bridal carry. Scrambling in his grasp, you hadn’t noticed that you had wrapped your arms around his neck until you turned your head to look at him, and not realizing that he was looking at you too, your lips had accidentally brushed against his own.

You reacted quickly as you pulled away, “I- I’m so sorry!”

And as you looked at him, it was like it took a moment for your words to register in his head as his eyes seemed to have a far away look in his eyes, but before you could say anything else, he smiled at you.

“You don’t need to apologize for something like that.”

You nodded as he fixed his hold on you and moved to exit the infirmary, and just as you were about to ask him if he wanted you to open the door for him, he had called out to Blade, and just as he did, the door opened. Blade seemingly had been guarding the infirmary this entire time.

“Come along.”

The walk to your room was silent and whatever you did, you just couldn’t get your body to relax within his hold. Your tension not going unnoticed by the Emperor, but luckily he didn’t say anything.

“Here we are.”

Looking towards the door and then back up at Jing Yuan’s face you asked, “do we… not sleep in the same room?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard, but he was quick to recover, “before we had agreed not to share a room until after we are married, however, maybe sleeping in the same room will hasten your memories to come back sooner rather than later.”

You were quick to shake your head as you ducked your chin down to avoid eye contact, “n- no, we can- we can wait until we’re married- if- if you still want to marry me.”

Having Blade open your bedroom door, Jing Yuan had walked in with you still in his arms. His steps easily carry you to your bed, but before he set you down, he had leaned into you. His lips pressing softly to your forehead causing you to freeze up again.

“Get some rest, I’ll see you at breakfast in the morning. Your maids will come assist you in getting ready tomorrow,” he said to you as he set you down.

“Al- alright, thank you Emper-,” before you could finish he had stopped you, his thumb pressing firmly against your lips.

“My name.”

Nodding to him, he had brought his hand away, “thank you…. Yuan.”

The shortening of his name seemed to catch him off guard again, but just as before his recovery was as swift as the wind, and he delivered his goodnight to you just as easily before leaving your room.

And once you were finally alone, you flopped back into your mattress. Jing Yuan was acting off, but you knew better. As long as you stayed on your toes and kept at it, you knew that you would be able to make it home.

“Blade.”

“Yes?”

“Has Dan Heng apprehended the maid responsible?”

“He has.”

“Good.”

“Do you want him to take care of her?”

“No, I’ll kill the maid myself.”

taglist pt 1

@danae-misfortune @frogsasfrogs @openthenyoor01 @zuhaine @ughlostmyotherac @joyfulnightprincess @thechibifoxcub @ceaether @satanisasofties @thetwinkims @yanrandom @honeybunbunn @superdonkeypatroleggs @ohmyfinggod @baboon-milk333 @zareri @kclremin @rains-mae @yccoffeesimp @bloomiesty @moon-taffy @superdark-soul @pinkismyfavcolor @isa-l0v3r @its-astrotea-love @reapersan @junephantom21 @erisfayred @greyrain23 @justadekusimp @uzxotic @alisstaa @avalordream @unlivingdisaster @pix-stuff @sleepyxion14 @pillows-blankets @anicega @junni-berry @niaainthere @sorachitsuki @dyingsweetmackerel @rosariymchapter @immahuman @fluffy-koalala @momoniq @orphiclueur @insightedly

[mikami1992]

The situation is becoming more and more chaotic…

Over the past month, a series of kidnappings of politicians and businessmen have taken place throughout the country.

The latest victim?

Lex Luthor was the 10th victim and it occurred during a press conference in front of the Lex Corp building… The modus operandi was the same as the previous ones, a group of people with helmets and white motorcycle suits, along with green lacer weapons assaulted the tycoon and proceeded to take him away under the newly discovered Anti-Ecto law, once again there was a confrontation between the "Hunters" and the security group of the place, again nothing could be done and several of the guards were taken away under the charge of terrorism according to the guidelines of the previous law…..

o

The teenagers of Amity Park decided to make an unconventional protest to publicize and accelerate the repeal of the Anti-Ecto Laws, said proposal consists of kidnapping the politicians who approved the law (knowing about it) as well as the businessmen with more questionable practices.

The idea ended up emerging when, noticing how the GIW began to check humans for ecto-contamination, they decided to make a "Jewel" with the sole purpose of fooling the government's sensors.

Once they had it ready, the Phantom team had to explain to the rest of the town's teenagers how and why they had to use the device…

And amidst all the chaos of the situation, the crazy group of teenagers decided that they had to do something to stop the laws, so they made the following plan…

Reverse the jewels so that they create a false ectoplasmic signature.

Implant it in politicians, businessmen or any questionable person so that they are "ecto entities"

Use a scanner "approved" by the GIW, that is, by the government, and identify them as ecto entities

Proceed to kidnap them in the most public way possible while shouting anti-ecto acts.

Wait for the chaos in the government and the repeal of the laws.

[laanswife]

Why are thirsty posts about fictional older women the most popular on Tumbr? 🤔😉

[stellarbit]

His Scent

Hunter x female Jedi

I got a request for a Jedi solo saving Tech on a mission, growing closer, and making Hunter jealous. I tweaked it a little bit, but lemme just saw NSFW my girlies. I am not a Hunter girlie but I did have to fan my face for this one. You are strong and confident in this one.

2.0k words. NSFW

Tech leaned heavily against you, his arm draped over your shoulders as you helped him hobble along. You had been sent to Kashyyyk with Clone Force 99 to assist in dispatching a group of Trandoshan marauders. The operation concluded smoothly—until a separate incident sidelined Tech.

While attempting to disable enemy sensors solo, Tech missed several check-ins. Eventually, his voice crackled through the comm-link, "It appears I've inadvertently descended into a booby trap on the forest floor," he reported. "Apart from a definite ankle sprain, I'm intact. However, extricating myself from this pit will prove challenging given the state of my ankle. Assistance would be appreciated."

“Just hang tight, we’ll come rescue you.” Hunter’s relief was palpable through the comm. He’d barely released the comm device when you cut in.

“I’ll go.”

Hunter hesitated, shaking his head. “No, no. Crosshair and I-”

You raised a hand to cut him off. “Serg, I can force-jump down there and retrieve him faster than you could even reach the edge.” His silence was telling; he was clearly not convinced. Laughing heartily at his stern demeanor, you playfully slapped his shoulder as you breezed past. “Relax, Sergeant. I’ve got this.”

Hunter wasn’t fast enough to stop before you leapt into the dense canopy with a force-jump, diving into action despite his reservations.

But, you were right. Locating Tech and pulling him from the pit proved no challenge for your Jedi abilities. As the two of you made your way back through the Kashyyyk forest, you planned your next move aloud.

“Once we reach that clearing, I can jump us back to camp.”

Tech, wincing slightly with each step, was quick to propose an alternative. “Perhaps if you just comm Wrecker, he could—”

You interrupted Tech by yanking up on him, bettering your grip on him. “You boys need to have a little more faith.” Lurching him over one more felled tree you managed a teasing tone, “Unless it’s the heights bothering you.” The joy you got from teasing Tech would never fade.

Once at the clearing, you paused to give Tech a chance to rest his foot. He sighed heavily, the frustration evident even through his helmet. "I'm merely suggesting that Wrecker's strength could hasten our journey," he remarked, looking for a pragmatic solution.

Laughing lightly, you knelt to inspect his ankle. It was clearly swollen, but thankfully it seemed manageable with some rest. As you steadied his knee, you teased, "And miss the opportunity to hold you close?" You playfully blew a raspberry, adding, "Not likely."

Tech tilted his head, his shoulders drooping slightly under the weight of his exasperation. "You do realize, your playful antics might be entertaining, but they're also prolonging our delay."

“So you do find me entertaining.” When Tech’s only response was a deadpan expression you scoffed and stood.

Placing your hands on your hips and leaning in mock-seriousness you said, “Lighten up, Tech. We'll be back before you know it." Wit a sly grin, you added, "Besides, I think someone's little detour into a booby trap is the real time thief here."

Tech rolled his eyes, conceding with a shrug. “Fine, seeing how my mishap did indeed slow down operations.” He extended a hand towards you. “We will do it your way.”

Unable to hold back a satisfied smile you crouched down, shrugged his arm over your shoulder and put an arm under his legs to position him in your arms. Hauling him up in one fell swoop, you craned your head back to gauge his reaction.

Completely caught off guard, Tech’s hand flew up around your neck. His startled expression made you pause. It was cuter than you’d imagined. Tech quickly adjusted his eyes to a more composed, no-nonsense look.

"Okay, okay," you chuckled, slightly embarrassed but focusing on the task at hand. Tightening your hold on him, you looked up through the forest canopy. "Hold on tight." With those words, you launched upwards, navigating through the trees with ease.

Back at camp, Hunter stood impatiently at the Marauder door. He still wasn’t sure letting you go off on your own was the right thing to do.

Echo noticed Hunter’s fixation from his position inside the ship. "Hunter," he called out, rotating the pilot's chair to face him, "she can handle this."

Hunter didn’t respond immediately, his gaze locked on the path you had taken. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, a silent admission of his confidence in you. However, his eyes betrayed a hint of unease. "I know she can," he murmured, more to himself than to Echo. "But I’d feel better if she didn't have to prove it so often."

He’d feel better if you never left his sight.

Landing gracefully back at the camp, Tech still in your arms. As you approached with Tech, the rest of the squad gathered, visibly relieved to see both of you safe. 

Wrecker let out a boisterous laugh, clapping Hunter on the back. "Looks like the Jedi's got everything under control, huh?"

Hunter couldn’t help but smile genuinely this time, his eyes meeting yours as you helped Tech to a more comfortable spot. "Good work," he said, his voice carrying a mix of admiration. "But next time, maybe let us help a bit more."

Tech, now safely on solid ground, nodded in agreement. "Yes, perhaps with a more... collaborative approach."

Wrecker took Tech off your hands, following Echo into the Marauder to treat Tech. 

“Alright,” Hunter announced, turning to you and Crosshair. “The three of us will do one last perimeter check. As long as everything is clear for the regs, we can head out.” Without a word, Crosshair stalked off to begin his section of the sweep.

Hunter then turned to you. “You and I will take this sector.” His tone left no room for argument as he started walking.

“As long as I’m following you,” you quipped, your gaze briefly flicking to his backside, “I’m not complaining.” Your flirtation drew a weary sigh from Hunter.

You had only ventured a few feet into the forest, beyond the sight of the ship, when Hunter abruptly turned to face you.

Hunter grabbed your arms, spinning you around to face him as he pressed you against the massive tree root. He lifted his hands, removed his helmet, and moved in to cage between his arms.

For a moment, neither of you spoke; the forest around you seemed to hold its breath.

"You're fearless," he murmured, his voice low. "I respect that. But out there, when you jumped with Tech... I realized something." He moved a knee in time with his hands as he pushed you higher onto the tree root. Using his knees, he knocked your legs apart and pressed himself in between them.

“And what’s that?” A tremor ran through your hands, the predatory look in Hunter’s eyes locked you in place. Your legs fanned out farther for him, pulling a groan from him as he pressed into you.

"I didn't like it," Hunter confessed, his eyes dipping to your lips. "I didn't like the smell of him on you." His words hung in the air, charged and raw. His admission was not just about the mission—it was about him, about you, about the undefined something simmering between you two.

A soft laugh escaped you, born of nerves and the surreal nature of the confession. “The smell of him?”

Hunter nodded, bowing his head so that the tip of his nose brushed over the curve of your ear. A shiver ran up your spine, bending your neck towards him. Hunter’s hand slid over your shoulder, up the back of your neck, and to the side of your head. With a firm grip, he pulled your head to the side and exposed your neck.

Hunter grazed his lips where his nose had been and down the length of your neck. He settled into the crook of your neck and muttered against your skin. “I can still smell him on you.”

You whined at the hum of his voice across your skin. Until then, your hands were frozen at your sides, now they freely roamed his waist. The way Hunter moved his body was a sin.

“You hate it that much?” You breathed out.

“Yes,” He ground out. "You drive me crazy, you know that?" 

You moved your head just enough that your lips were only a breath from his. Heat pooled between your legs and you smiled. “So do something about it.” 

Hunter’s nose flared and kissed you like he was going to devour you. The angle you were sitting at gave him ample room to pull at your clothes. The loose nature of your outfit made it easy for Hunter to expose the skin of your legs and pull aside your panties. 

At the same time you ripped away the gear at his waist. Between the two of you, it felt like you wouldn’t be satisfied until you were completely bare for each other. 

Hunter’s hands wedged under your ass and angled your hips as you pulled him from his pants. At your touch, Hunter sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, dragging his teeth over the sensitive flesh. You gasped into his mouth. 

“Tell me you want this.” He almost begged.

“I want this,” You quickly panted.

He thrust his hips into your touch, groaning as he said, “Tell me you want me.”

Giving him a firm stroke, you lined his head up with your entrance. That gentle contact sent a drip of your slick down his cock. 

“I want you, Hunter.” You pulled him in with your legs and sunk his cock into you. He finished the motion and buried himself into you.

His girth shocked you, but didn’t stop you from moving against his thrusts. The painful stretch he caused flooded your groin with heat. Each thrust knocked you incoherent. His thrusts were shallow and rapid, barely pulling out before ramming back into you. 

With another person, he may have worried about breaking them. You weren’t like others though. Your strength and fierceness were what intoxicated him. So Hunter trusted you could take it; that you could take him.

And you were taking him so well.

You squeezed your hand between your bodies, feeling for the sensitive bud between your legs. When you arched into him, Hunter knew you found it. Your eyes rolled while your fingers made small, precise circles. Every second, you were tightening around him and pushing him closer to his limit.

Hunter dipped his lips to the soft spot behind your ear, breath warm against your skin, and gave the spot a long, slow lick. With a smile evident in his voice, he said. “Good girl.”

His voice made your entire body go taught, a sudden burst of heat rushing from your core. You moaned out his name like it could save you and held on to him while your orgasm wrecked you. 

The sudden vice grip you had on him made Hunter hiss and he buried himself deep inside of you, pressing his face into your neck. Release hit him hard and he groaned into your skin. For a moment, he thought he’d never stop filling you.

Everytime he thought he was coming down you convulsed around him and another wave of pleasure flooded him. It wasn’t until your body started relaxing around him that Hunter was able to gain a semblance of clarity. 

You both were breathless. Panting, spent, and drunk on each other. It took a good ten seconds of catching your breath before you reached up, patted the back of his head, and said with a smile, “How do I smell now?”

Hunter chuckled into your shoulder. He inhaled deeply before he pushed himself up. On exhale he said, “Good.”

Your head fell back and you laughed, “Because I smell like you?”

He gripped your chin and tilted your head back up. With a cocky little smirk he gave a nod. “Exactly.”

The moment lingered, but duty eventually called, and you both straightened, adjusting yourselves and your gear.

Hunter replaced his helmet, saying "We should finish that perimeter check," His voice was almost normal but still carrying a trace of the heat from moments before.

You nodded, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. "Lead the way, Sergeant."

[theunholyvirginemilyprentiss]

I’m sorry, MARISKA? As in DETECTIVE OLIVIA BENSON? Paget, babe, I can’t take any more.

She gets it, and I’m having a proud moment. *Wipes away tear.*

*btw Paget is a real person please do not be one of those people who insists she’s gay over the internet/ pressuring her to come out, her sexuality has nothing to do with you. I just like that she is so understanding toward the LGBTQIA+ community. Thanks for coming to my TED talk xx.

[phantomstatistician]

Fandom: Soul Eater

Sample Size: 4,013 stories

Source: AO3

[your-mums-nuts]

POV Mae joins Oshamir post episode 8 and immediately regrets it.

[thatringboy]

haven’t finished Amphoreus yet but if they send Sunday down to the surface he’s literally gonna get confused for titankin with his funky clothes and halo he’s gonna get his ass beat by mydei and NOT in the way my current wip suggests

[wannabespacesmuggler]

THE LAST TIME ➵ J. N. NAWOOD

Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: The last time you saw Jod Na Nawood, he was taking off with his crew in search of treasure — promising that this haul of credits could finally get you both out of this life for good. Years later, you’re still on Nevarro where he left you, but you’ve created a life free from the bounty hunter’s guild and backstabbing pirates. That is until Jod Na Nawood shows up on your doorstep with four small children asking for your help. Against your better judgment, you agree, but with a promise that this is the last time you let him in your door. It was only a matter of time before your seemingly neverending patience for the scoundrel found its end, but Jod decides to push his luck one last time.

Pairing: Jod Na Nawood x gn!Reader

Warnings: written after episode 6 of Skeleton Crew, previously established relationship, angst, language, no use of y/n, use of nicknames

Word Count: 3k

Author’s Note: Happy Skeleton Crew Day! The show isn't even over, and I'm writing for my favorite pathetic man. Should I wait until we know more about Jod's backstory to write for him? Maybe. Is that going to stop me? Absolutely not. Will any new information change how I feel about him? No. It's Jude Law, and I love him. Listen, Disney has GOT to stop giving me reluctant fathers — I'm out here collecting them like infinity stones. Anyway, I haven't seen much fanfic for my boy Jod, so I figured I'd write a little something. I've become a little too invested in this relationship between the pirate and the bounty hunter after writing this, so let me know if you want to see more of them — like their first meeting, their first big score, or just some snippets of their travels together.

A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you watch a group of young children scurry past your shop while you close for the day, racing to get home before curfew. Grabbing your datapad and flipping off the lights, you begin your trek home just outside Nevarro’s capital city. On your way, you wave goodnight to multiple other shop owners who have rebuilt their lives in Nevarro. It’s incredible to see what this city has become. Within the past ten years, Nevarro went from a ruthless refuge for bounty hunters and Imperial outlaws to a bustling city built on lawful trade and commerce.

You never thought you’d be able to live a quiet life — not after the grueling years you spent with the bounty hunter’s guild. You thought you were meant for a life filled with danger and excitement, but as the years went on, that life began to take a toll on you — allies turning into enemies, always having to sleep with one eye open, never being able to settle down somewhere. But here you are, with your own plot of land and a shop filled with the treasures and artifacts you collected on past adventures. The only thing missing in your life is the person you want to spend it with. 

You shake that thought out of your head as you enter your quaint home nestled amongst several small farms. You try not to dwell on the past — especially not those that left you behind. However, you can’t help it as your eyes land on an old photo on your bedside table that you never had the heart to destroy. There, pictured with his arm slung around your shoulder with a bright smile after your first big score together, is Jod Na Nawood. The photo marked the beginning of your partnership. What started as a professional business arrangement quickly became an unlikely friendship — a pirate and a bounty hunter against the galaxy. Eventually, that friendship shifted into something a little more tender. And soon enough, you’d fallen in love with the man that no one else dared to trust. 

A frustrated sigh escapes your lips as you tear your eyes away from the photo. You should get rid of the photo, as it’s now just a reminder of the man who left and never came back. You haven’t seen Jod in years — not since he ventured off with his latest pirate crew in search of treasure. It didn’t make sense for you to tag along since your latest bounty puck was on the other side of the Outer Rim territories. But the night before he left, Jod promised you this was it. The cunning scoundrel of the star systems assured you that this was your last bounty and his last plunder. And you made the mistake of believing him. 

You made your way to the kitchen and busy yourself with brewing a fresh pot of caf, knowing that even though the sun had already set, you are far from sleep — a life of hunting bounties cursed you with many things, including insomnia. Before you can pour yourself a mug, you hear footsteps approaching your bungalow. You quickly grab the blaster you have hidden under the counter. Nevarro may be a reformed city, but you’re still prepared for the worst. 

You quietly move to the front door and press your ear against the cool wood. To your surprise, the voices you hear sound juvenile. You loosen your grip around your blaster as you suspect some of your neighbor’s kids are out past curfew. It wouldn’t be the first time that you have to walk some of the local children home to ensure their safety. But when you open the door, your breath catches in your chest. He’s leaner than the last time you saw him and his short hair is a little grayer, but standing before you is none other than Jod Na Nawood. A charming smile spreads across his face as he locks eyes with you.

“It’s been a while, Jewels.”

The old nickname is like a punch to the gut — knocking out the air caught in your lungs. You hated the term endearment, which only made Jod use it more. But on a quiet night in your old starship, after too many glasses of Rodian spice liquor, Jod explained the true meaning behind the name: all the treasure in the galaxy will never compare to you — his prize jewel. 

“What are you going by now — Crimson Jack, Silvo the Mad Captain, Jodwick Zank, Dash Zentin, or maybe Professor Gorelox?”

You know it’s a low blow, but the way that name slipped off his tongue so easily angers you. It’s like every emotion you’ve ever pushed away has come crashing down on you. But you’re not that person anymore — you're not his — you haven’t been for a while. Jod bristles at your question. To the rest of the galaxy, he may be a liar and a scoundrel, but with you, he was simply himself. Even if you don’t realize it, no one in all the star systems knows Jod Na Nawood like you do. 

“Just Jod.”

“What are you doing here, Jod?”

He glances behind him, and you find the source of the voices you heard: four young children huddled together. Your face softens as they look up at you.

“I need your help.”

For a split second, his mask of swaggering indifference slips, and you can see the exhaustion embedded deep into his handsome features. Jod’s shoulders slump forward for a moment before he rights his posture. 

“This the last time I’m letting you in my door, Jod.”

Your words are a double-edged sword — a threat and a promise. Jod nods knowingly, and, against your better judgment, you open the door the rest of the way, letting Jod and the children into your home. 

“Noticed no speeder outside. Did you get rid of it? You loved that thing.”

He attempts to make small talk. It’s strange being in your presence now. He thought he’d find comfort in it, but it now feels awkward after years of separation. But he knows how much that speeder meant to you — an old Joben T-85 you’ve had since your youth. When you weren’t off chasing a bounty, you could be found working on that bike. And you always kept it just a few paces outside the front door of your old house on Nevarro.

“Had to. Who do you think had to pay off all your debts when you disappeared?”

Ouch. Guess he needs to add that to the neverending list of things he has to make up for. Jod keeps his mouth closed and follows you into the kitchen. You pour two cups of caf. He’ll have to make do with having it black; you stopped stocking your small pantry with cream and sugar about a year after his departure. You slide a cup toward Jod before looking at the four children. 

“You guys hungry?”

You open your pantry, letting each of them choose a snack from your selection. Your eyes wander to Jod, sipping his caf slowly, nose crinkling ever-so-slight at the taste. His slacks have been patched at least a dozen times, his cotton shirt is torn, and the jacket he’s wrapped in is ill-fitting. Your brow furrows at the sight. The Jod you knew put, arguably, too much effort into his appearance. 

“I have a trunk of your old clothing under my bed. Go change.”

You motion towards your bedroom door, but Jod doesn’t move. Instead, a grin pulls at his lips.

“What’s wrong with my get up, Jewels? Am I not a sight for sore eyes?”

“You’re a sight, that’s for sure.”

Jod playfully rolls his eyes before relenting. You attempt to stifle the shiver that runs down your spine when his arm brushes against yours. But it’s safe to say Jod noticed based on the smirk that pulls at his lips. You’re almost embarrassed by how much your body yearns for his touch. After years of separation, he’s right here invading your personal space — and yet he still feels so far away. 

Jod finally breaks free from your orbit and disappears into your bedroom. He lets out a shaky breath as he closes the door. He approaches your bed and chuckles at the amount of blankets you’ve thrown on top of your mattress. He remembers the countless nights in your starship that he’d slide into bed, only to be immediately pulled into your chilly embrace. Your hands would slide under his loose shirt, and although your touch was ice cold, he’d never pull away.

Jod shakes off the memory and pulls the trunk out from under your bed. Inside are a few cotton shirts, an old pair of trousers, and his favorite jacket, which is folded nicely at the bottom. He never thought he’d see this jacket again — he never thought you’d keep it after all this time. He tries not to look into the gesture until he looks up and spots the photo on your bedside table. His hands move on their own accord as they delicately pick up the photograph. It reignites his cold heart, and he’s suddenly drowning in an ocean of unspoken emotion. 

The sound of your laughter in the next room forces him to tear his eyes away from the memory. He quickly changes, a sigh of relief escaping his lips as he slides his arms into his old jacket. It’s the first time in years that he actually feels like himself. 

He steps out of your bedroom and is emotionally sucker-punched by the scene before him. You’re on the couch with the kids close by. KB and Fern are on the floor watching something on your satapad — most likely one of the old Mandalorian soap operas you’ve watched at least a dozen times. You’re on the couch with Wim and Neel. Neel snores quietly with his head pressed against your shoulder, while you card your fingers through Wim’s hair as he sleeps peacefully with his head in your lap. It’s domestic — it’s what life should have looked like for the two of you. 

He doesn’t have the heart to interrupt this picturesque moment, but you eventually feel his gaze and look up at him with a soft smile. For a second, you simply look at each other before you eventually tear your eyes away from him. You gently shake the boys awake before getting the girls’ attention. 

“C’mon guys, you can sleep in my room. There’s more than enough space for all of you. KB and Fern — you can even keep my datapad for the night.”

The girls smile at you before racing into your bedroom, immediately claiming the mattress for themselves. Wim and Neel trail behind them and collapse onto the small couch in the corner of the room. After the children have settled in, you close the door and return your attention to Jod. 

“We need to talk.”

Jod nods at your words and follows you into the kitchen. He watches with a small smile as you pour yourself another cup of caf. When the two of you traveled together, you practically ran on caffeine. Some things never change. 

“So, At Attin?”

You look up at him and take a long drink of your caf. Jod nods at your words and leans against the counter across from you — still in disbelief over the revelation.

“It’s real.”

“So, I’m told. Wim even gave me one of these.”

You pull out an Old Republic credit from your pocket, and Jod simply stares at the little piece of metal in your hands. The things he’s done just to get his hands on a stash of those old credits — the people he’s killed, the friends he’s betrayed, the loved ones he’s left behind. It haunts him. And yet, he’s practically salivating at the credit in your hand, and if you were anyone else… Well, old habits die hard, he supposes.

His reaction makes you let out a dry laugh, and you place the Old Republic credit on the counter beside you. You take another sip of caf before confronting him.

“That’s what you’re doing this for, right? Chasing down an old pirate’s fairytale for a couple of credits?”

Jod’s face falls at your insinuation. He thought if anyone would understand how incredible this information was, it was you. His posture turns uncharacteristically rigid as he now feels the need to defend himself. 

“It’s real, Jewels. The kids, they said…”

“They’re children, Jod! Children make up stories all the time — they would be from anywhere in the star systems. Have you even thought this through?”

Jod’s brow furrows, and he shakes his head furiously at your words. 

“No, it has to be real. They wouldn’t offer up a reward they can’t cash in.”

“They would if they thought it was the only way you’d stick around.”

Jod prepares to bite back at your claim but stops as he notices your downcast expression. That’s why you thought he never came back? The realization slaps him in the face. You may believe that he cares for treasure and coin more than your company, but you couldn’t be more wrong. His longing for you is burrowed deep into his bones. Your voice, which he carefully burned into his memory, was his only companion. You were his every waking thought and his every idyllic dream during his time in that dank, dark cell. 

“I had every intention of coming back to you.”

You let out a frustrated huff at his words but note how his voice has softened. His gaze is intense as he waits for your response.

“If you wanted to, you would have.”

The palpable hurt in your tone makes him feel like someone just stabbed him in the heart and twisted the knife. You should never feel unwanted — especially by him. Not when Jod knows it’s been you all along. 

Not coin. Not treasure. Not even the Old Republic credit he’s miraculously forgotten about on the counter. You.

“You have it all wrong.”

You roll your eyes at his words, and for a moment, he thinks you’re about to argue with him. But you stay silent, letting him continue. 

“I meant it. What I said to you the last time I left. But I was wrong about the credits — they were moved before we arrived. And you know how much that stash meant to the crew — how life-changing those credits would have been for every single one of them. So, Brutus invoked the Pirate’s Code, and I yielded, knowing I needed to get back to you. And I’ve been stuck in a cell on Borgo Prime ever since.”

Your mind is reeling as you take in his words. All this time, you thought he’d been plundering the galaxy. But, instead, he’s been imprisoned on a planet a mere day’s travel away. 

“You’ve been that close this entire time?”

Jod nods at your words, and his heart breaks as tears begin to well up in your eyes. He takes a daring step forward. With no opposition from you, he takes another step and then another. He’s invading your personal space once again, but this time, you aren’t complaining. You place your now lukewarm cup of caf on the counter beside you, next to the forgotten Old Republic credit. 

“How’d you know where to find me?”

Jod places his hands on either side of the counter, caging you in before answering.

“Brutus had the crew keep tabs on you. At first, to make sure you didn’t come looking for me. But then, he just did it to torment me with all of the details of your new life without me. When I escaped that damn spaceport with those kids, I came straight here.”

Your breath gets caught in your throat as you look up at Jod. You know you should be angry at him. Furious. There’s a long list of wrongs that he needs to right before he’s an upstanding man. But as he stands before you, looking down with nothing but adoration in his gaze, you cannot find it in yourself to be anything other than content. Jod ducks his head down a little lower, meeting your eyes. 

“I’m truly sorry, Jewels.”

You lift up on your toes, closing the distance between you, and capture his lips with yours. He moves his hands from the counter to your waist, greedily tugging you closer to him. The way he touches you is urgent — this is all he’s dreamed of for years, and he won’t waste a single moment. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down towards you with just as much desperation. The kiss is deep, passionate, and ravenous. Eventually, you both must pull away — the need for air outweighing the need for each other.

After catching his breath, Jod smiles brightly down at you. And he’s suddenly Crimson Jack again — the charismatic and dangerously charming pirate you fell in love with all those years ago. But there’s a newfound maturity and sincerity that makes him less like Crimson Jack and more like the man you always knew he could be: Jod Na Nawood. And it’s for that reason that you know what he must do.

“You have to leave again, right?”

Jod sighs, nodding at your words. He presses his forehead against yours, wishing to stay in your embrace for the rest of his days. But he’s made promises that he must keep. Promises that will take him far from you, but he has to make sure these kids get home — wherever home is. But after he does right by the children, he can finally begin doing right by you. And that starts with coming back — and then maybe replacing the speeder bike that you sold off for him. He knows he may never be able to right every wrong he’s done, but he’ll spend the rest of his life making them up to you — as long as you let him.

“This is the last time, I promise.”

And against all odds, you believe him. 

[moonj-fool]

🧠As bare as I can possibly be🫀

Piece I finished up recently for a class final. I plan to write a short fic about it later🫶🏼

(uncensored version on bsky)

[thecoffeelorian]

Anomaly (Jod Na X Reader)

A/N: I typed this out in the span of a morning on my phone, and then worked my way up from there. Anyways, to business...

Title: Anomaly

Chapter Title: The Stowaway

Genre: Drama/Romance

Word Count: 1,077 words

AO3: Click Here!

Special Notes: I have zero idea if Jod is going to be either the pirate I think he is or the ex-Jedi that others believe him to be...however, if none of these turn out to be true, then I'll just mark this as an AU and keep on trucking along. 'Nuff said!

No Pressure Tags: @ladysongmaster @braveincafleet @ireadwithmyears and anyone else who might want to catch the first-ever Jod Na x Reader story in this fandom! Thank you for your consideration!

ANOMALY

This doesn’t feel like the Great Work to me, you think to yourself, glancing around in silence as the Reclamation Committee gathers at At Attin’s first, and probably last, official spaceport. Originally, you would be deep into your latest pile of holo-work in the Undersecretary’s office, a half-drank cup of caf on your right and the few images of your surviving relatives sitting still upon your left.

Thanks to the curiosity of a handful of local children, however…everyone’s daily routine, yours included, has since been upended be it for better or for worse. In fact, the tension’s visible on everyone’s face as they await the incoming ship, and most likely for good reason—the ones said to be on board, at least in theory, are going to have a lot of explaining to do.

As for you, you’ve got both eyes upon your datapad screen like the good little Intern you are, making as many mental notes as possible while you wait. So far, according to the reports—or, at least, the official documents that you had been granted access to—all four of the missing children had been found safe; they had then been directed onto a secure flight back home; and, once the growing blur of that same flight could be seen from the platform and the volume of all human conversation around you grew alongside it, they would certainly be participating in a very long debriefing once those docking bay doors finally opened.

And yet...everything that you hadn’t been informed about becomes, as soon as the one known as Neel is the first to step off, pretty sparkling clear once the security droids all aim their weapons at the back of the ship.

“No, wait! Don’t hurt him, he’s a friend!”

To your surprise, if not also the surprise of everyone else around you, there was a fifth person on board. This person must have been halfway decent enough to keep this little group under their watchful eye, for the remaining kids still on the ship—Fern, Wim, and KB respectively—all add their voices to Neel’s protest as they’re coaxed onto the platform, Wim going so far as to try and pull the blaster out of a droid’s hands before a short pop of static electricity teaches him differently.

And, once those same droids give the order for them to come out with their hands up…your first sight of that fifth person all but takes your breath away.

Oh. Dear. Me.

Yes, there’s a man hiding back there, not some Wookiee in a fit of rage…but he’s not just any man as the ones among you already have been. No, this one has the equal look of both predator and prey written into his body language, for the look he gives the security team is nearly an even mix of one about to shoot down several live targets and one about to run for cover, almost like he's known both such situations in the course of his life...but isn't about to breathe a word of it.

To your growing sense of alarm, he’s also far too damned attractive for his own good, let alone yours. Sure, there are the signs of middle age upon him, why would there not be—and yet, other than the visible age lines upon his face, the stiffness in his steps, and the traces of silver within his hair, you just couldn’t stop yourself from running a visual scan of everything else he’d brought down to the surface. Things like...the hard set of his shoulders, the sharp outline of his jaw, and—worst of all—those startling blue eyes that you swore saw everything ahead, behind, and every other direction around him in a matter of seconds. Eyes that could see right through you if you’re foolish enough to let them, though you can only hope you never fall for any piece of this stranger’s charm, direct or otherwise.

And if that alone hadn’t somehow warned you in advance not to look too long, not to examine him too closely, and above all else, not to allow yourself to care too much about what might happen to this mysterious stranger…the reaction of the head droid would finally drive it all home.

”Jod Na Nawood, also known as ‘Crimson Jack’, also known as 'Captain Silvo', in the name of the Republic, you are hereby under arrest…”

Crimson Jack…? Captain Silvo? Him?! That one was the 'Thief Of A Thousand Treasures'?

You’d heard of a few stories about that scary figure, but that was all they were supposed to be. Stories. Legends. Tales one told to their children in order to get them to behave at the dinner table, and not real people of flesh, blood, and bone, because there were supposed to be no such thing.

Especially not away from the pages of a holobook, let alone outside of any datapad video feeds.

And yet…as this infamous Crimson Jack finally allowed the binders to be snapped around his wrists, one sad look sent towards the children before being taken into custody, it was here that you had to start asking yourself whether or not some of these stories were, in truth, full of facts as solid as durasteel—and if so, whether this stranger was truly as dangerous as the stories whispered in the dark made him out to be.

It would also be about a few seconds later that those startling blue eyes would just happen to meet yours, an even stranger feeling of both warmth and cool air pass between you like the rush of a long-dormant hyperdrive slowly working itself back up to full power and, finally, a phantom set of words echoing within your mind just as surely as if he had spoken them aloud.

I see you.

Several minutes would pass by until you snapped yourself out of your stunned silence and came back to reality, a few familiar faces around you making sure you were all right, that no tricks or funny business or strange arcane rituals had taken your mind over where you stood—and yet, for all of that, there was only one thought left in you, only one question that made sense—and so, even though this man was no longer in your sight, still you asked it out loud for everyone else to hear.

“And if I were to get inside your head, Mister ‘Crimson Jack’...what would I see?”

[madthetruemad]

There is No Law that Emperors Must be Fair

Emperor ! Jing Yuan x Princess ! Reader

Chapter 10 | Boring Princess

Summary | You are set to marry the Emperor, Jing Yuan. In order to break the engagement, you stage an accident and fake having amnesia. But now, your own cruel, cold, and distant fiancé, who seemed to not want anything to do with you, is now acting all lovey dovey!

want to be a part of the taglist? then pls go to taglist ^-^

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You were fitted with a dress the moment you got back to your room. Whether or not it was pretty, well, you suppose that Jing Yuan will be the judge of that. You just hope that the dinner goes well.

“The emperor is waiting for you, princess.”

You nodded almost slowly as the maid finished fixing your hair before stepping away from you. You stood up from your chair that was sat perfectly in front of your mirror. You didn’t want to go to this dinner, but the Emperor’s word is law. Much to your dismay.

“Thank you,” you managed to utter out as you began to leave your room. The roll of the maid’s eyes and her little scoff only made you sigh internally. You recognized her. She was one of the frequent maids who would accompany the Emperor to his bed. Her dislike of you was made clear when you first met her.

The walk to the dining hall was quiet and almost awkward. Blade, who flanked your side the moment you left your room, did not make it any better.

“Nervous?”

His sudden question also unnerved you. He hasn’t tried to talk you once or initiate conversation with you in this life yet. So it had caught you off guard.

“Yes, a little.”

Blade watched you carefully before nodding and lead you into the dining room.

“Princess.”

You gathered any courage you could muster as you bowed to the Emperor. The legs of his chair scraping against the marble floor as he stood up to greet you.

“Emperor.”

You tried to keep your tone even, but it was obvious that you were scared. You couldn’t hide it, no matter how hard you tried.

His footsteps echoed loud in the room as he walked towards you, and you involuntarily took a step back but was stopped by Blade. And when he stopped in front of you, he reached for a strand of your hair and played with it a little. The curl twirling between his fingertips before he let it go as he let out a sigh in… disappointment?

“You are quite boring, aren’t you, princess?”

“Boring…?”

Jing Yuan smiled at you, “yes, boring. You don’t say or do anything about the maids that warm my bed. You spend your days flitting about the castle without evening trying to escape. And among other things.”

“Well, maybe if you wouldn’t kill anyone who says one wrong thing about you, then maybe I would be more inclined to speak with you.”

You couldn’t stop the snap in your voice, but Jing Yuan merely chuckled at your words. Amused.

“As if your words held any value to me in the first place.”

The Emperor glanced towards Blade, “get rid of her for me, won’t you? I don’t like playing with toys that bore me to death.”

Was coming to this dinner a test? It must have been since the Emperor just ordered Blade to kill you.

And just as the guard took a hold of your arm to probably drag you in a more secluded place. Jing Yuan stopped him.

“Killing her here is fine,” he said simply as a few servants came out of the kitchen with hot and ready foot and cold beverages. Blade, in response, merely pushed you to the ground. His other hand already unsheathing his sword. And when he raised his weapon, you closed your eyes.

Death was at least quick this time.

And just like before, when you opened your eyes, you were back in your room at the very beginning when you started to form a plan to get amnesia.

You needed a new approach altogether, it seems.

taglist pt 1

@danae-misfortune @frogsasfrogs @openthenyoor01 @zuhaine @ughlostmyotherac @joyfulnightprincess @thechibifoxcub @ceaether @satanisasofties @thetwinkims @yanrandom @honeybunbunn @superdonkeypatroleggs @ohmyfinggod @baboon-milk333 @zareri @kclremin @rains-mae @yccoffeesimp @bloomiesty @moon-taffy @superdark-soul @pinkismyfavcolor @isa-l0v3r @its-astrotea-love @reapersan @junephantom21 @erisfayred @greyrain23 @justadekusimp @uzxotic @alisstaa @avalordream @unlivingdisaster @pix-stuff @sleepyxion14 @pillows-blankets @anicega @junni-berry @niaainthere @sorachitsuki @dyingsweetmackerel @rosariymchapter @immahuman @fluffy-koalala @momoniq @orphiclueur @insightedly

[marshmellin]

Star and Stone, Ch. 6 | Preparations

In one swift motion, he lowered his head and kissed her. It wasn’t tentative or uncertain. She had quite literally landed in his lap, and in doing so, erased his hesitation. The soft silk of her dress felt cool as his hand slid to her hip, but he could feel the heat of her skin as he pulled her closer.

They had kissed several times by now. Tender moments under the stars. A stolen embrace in his study.

That was not this.

-> COMPLETE! F FOR FIX IT: Explicit for rare smut (🔥) between consenting partners. All other content is Mature for language and canon-typical descriptions of angst/violence. Gil-galad x female OC Sindarin elf, Occurs between the Fall of Ost-in-Edhel in Eregion and the Battle of the Last Alliance. Contains references to other Tolkien lore and the Silmarillion with author notes for full explanations.

Repeat: Happily Ever After; everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. I try to be as canon-compliant as possible except for the whole 'keeping Gil-galad alive part.' No beta, we die like Mirdania.

If you enjoy this, check out ✨The Director's Cut✨ masterlist with quick links to all my TROP/LOTR content and AO3 profile.

✨ Star and Stone: Complete Chapter List

Ch. 1 of 12: Between the Mountains and the Sea

Ch. 2: Mirrored

Ch. 3: Fair and Free

Ch. 4: Countless Stars

Ch. 5: Silver Shield

You are here -> Ch. 6: Preparations

Ch. 7: Where the Shadows Are 🔥 [Explicit scene]

Ch. 8: Long Ago He Rode Away

Ch. 9: Wherever the Need is Greatest

Ch. 10: Where He Dwelleth, None Can Say

Ch. 11: Of Whom the Harpers Sing 🔥 [Explicit scene]

Ch. 12: Last High King of the Elves of the West

//

"...and if the request from King Oropher had been handled with diplomacy instead of arrogance, perhaps we would not be questioning alliances at such a crucial hour!" Ristarion’s voice rang out, his hand slamming down on the polished table for emphasis.

Gil-galad paused just inside the door, eyes sweeping over the council. Elrond sat stone-faced, arms crossed, while Arminas leaned back casually in his chair, observing but remaining silent. The other lords and advisors around the table shifted uneasily in their seats, glancing between Ristarion and the High King.

“It seems we have already begun,” Gil-galad said as he took his place at the head of the table. “Lord Ristarion, was there a point you wished to raise?” He cocked an eyebrow. 

If I have to hear about grain one more fucking time… 

“The king of Greenwood feels ignored, his needs cast aside in favor of Lindon’s priorities. Your priorities,” Ristarion said, his voice tinged with implied blame.

Fantastic. We’re all going to die because I can not make crops grow in winter.

Gil-galad could feel, rather than see, the I told you so look that was blooming on Elrond’s face. But, Gil-galad had become quite accustomed to the expression, so he did not need the reminder.

“Do you suggest that the loyalty of the Sindarin realms is so fragile that a single rebuke threatens it?” he asked, his voice even, spreading his hands. 

“I suggest,” Ristarion said, his tone hardening, “that you do not have their loyalty. To them, you are but another elven king among many – a high king, but not their high king.”

“And you, alone, can earn their loyalty?” Gil-galad asked, leaning back in his chair.

Ristarion snapped back, his voice rising slightly. “I can speak plainly without Noldorin pride clouding my meaning.”

Most of the lords here are Noldo, in whole or in part. His eyes flicked to Elrond, whose face all but glared his disapproval at this conversation taking place in his council hall.

So Ristarion isn’t interested in making friends here.

Ristarion pressed on. “Oropher and Amdír are hesitant. Their people whisper: when have the Noldor truly stopped the darkness? They brought this evil back.”

An angry murmur passed through the room.

Gil-galad’s gaze never wavered, but he cocked his head. “As you say, I do expect hesitation from the Sindarin realms to declare an alliance for open war.” His voice softened dangerously and steel entered his brown eyes. “The Sindar have always done well by hiding behind their walls. Until their walls fall.”

Ristarion did not miss the insult, but Gil-galad pressed on. “I recognize I ask much of them, though I am ‘but another elven king,’ but know that I do not ask it lightly.” 

Ristarion’s jaw was set, his eyes ablaze. He met Gil-galad’s threat. “Is dry wit and paperwork the only blade you offer them?” 

The silence that followed was heavy. Elrond scowled, his displeasure almost making his hair vibrate with anger. Arminas, his dark eyes fixed on Ristarion’s, moved his hand to rest on the hilt of the dagger at his belt—an unsubtle gesture declaring: No. Wit is not the only blade my high king offers.

Gil-galad felt a headache threatening to form behind his eyes. We are not all of us from the House of Fëanor. No bloodshed in this hall. At the very least. 

Posture relaxed, his hands rested lightly on the table, his voice cold. “Your boldness is noted, Lord Ristarion. If you believe you can succeed with the Sindarian realms where others have failed, then by all means, make your overtures. But do not mistake my allowance for approval.”

Ristarion’s expression darkened, but he inclined his head. “As you command, High King. I will accomplish what must be done.”

Gil-galad’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, weighing his options. Elaniel’s suggestion to bring Aeglos to council meetings seemed more and more appealing.  

Or I could let Arminas loose at the man and be done with it. 

Instead of pulling out a blade, he chose a different weapon. He turned to Elrond, gesturing for the meeting to continue.

“My lords,” Elrond said, his face still flushed with anger but his tone diplomatic as he shuffled maps and stacks of reports on the polished stone surface. “Perhaps we can revisit the specifics of diplomatic efforts with Kings Oropher and Amdír in a future session.”

The rest of the meeting proceeded awkwardly, the undercurrent of tension distracting every advisor present. As the council adjourned, Ristarion lingered for a moment, his eyes cold as they met Gil-galad’s before he swept out of the room.

Gil-galad stood at the head of the long table, his broad fingers tracing the cool edge of the polished stone as he stared at the doorway where Rastarion had exited. Elrond moved around the table to stand next to him, his shoulders tense. Gil-galad acknowledged him with a tilt of his head. ”Do you think Oropher or Amdír had a hand in this? Or is Ristarion acting on his own?”

Elrond all but shrugged, expression thoughtful as he followed Gil-galad’s eyes to the door. “I do not know why he plays this game or what he gains from it, but I think he seeks to back you into a corner—  whatever corner he can find. And the divisions of our kin run deep.”

Elven memories do not dim. And some wounds do not heal.

Gil-galad nodded. “And that is what troubles me most. If he undermines the fragile trust between our realms, it will not stop there. The Men who look to us will see our divisions and begin to doubt us as well.”

His eyes darkened at the thought. 

Why will no one listen? 

This is our only way forward.

//

In a place of honor in Gil-galad’s private study, near a large arched window that overlooked the palace gardens, stood a new addition: a drafting table, its smooth, wooden surface gleaming in the dying sunlight. It was new, the scent of freshly carved maple lingering in the room.

It was not a standard drafting table; it had been tailored for Elaniel. In her workshop, she had nailed a scrap piece of wood with some simple dividers as a makeshift way to keep items she used most close at hand. Now, the dividers were built into the top of the desk, each container hand-carved with patterns of stars — a much more ornate solution. 

Elaniel stood before it now, her fingers lightly tracing the curved edge of the table, her eyes gleaming as she took in the drafting tools, filed in a neat row. “It is beautiful. You did not have to go to so much trouble, Ereinion,” she breathed, turning to face him. 

The knot in his chest tugged again. He could not stop looking at her, at the open joy on her face as her fingers brushed lightly against the polished wood. The gratefulness in her tone, the way her cheeks burned cherry-red. The way she softly murmured his name. 

He thought his heart would hammer through his chest. 

“No, I did not,” Gil-galad replied, forcing his voice to stay steady. “But I found I wished to do so. For you. This is my” – our – “private study, which is” – secluded and secret – “guarded as part of my chambers. I thought I could offer” – a place for us to finally be alone together –  “another space that is not so public. I decided to make this space” - good enough for you - “fitting for your craft.”

She turned to him, her eyes sparkling. “Are you suggesting my humble workshop is unfit?”

“Not unfit,” he teased, tilting his head as walked toward her, smile blooming across his face. “But perhaps…your tools have minds of their own, ilmarë. They do seem to travel...”

Elaniel laughed as he scooped up her hands in his, his thumbs brushing over her knuckles. “I can not be held accountable for where they wander. Perhaps they seek creative inspiration. Who am I to stop them?”

He placed a chaste kiss against her knuckles, smiling broadly as she took her seat at the desk. He walked to his own as they settled in to their late afternoon routine.

“You’ve been busy,” she said after a moment, her tone casual. “I have not seen you in over a week.”

“As have you,” he countered gently. “Elrond tells me your review of the southern watchtower’s safety protocols was meticulous.”

“It’s necessary,” she murmured without looking up from her work. “I have no intention of letting small oversights lead to larger problems.”

He nodded, his expression growing thoughtful. “Alenya has spoken highly of you as well. She mentioned how often you visit the watchtowers to speak with the workers directly.”

Elaniel smiled. “Alenya has become a friend. She convinced me to join her for sparring practice —though I suspect she was simply curious how much of a fight I’d put up.”

Gil-galad’s eyebrows lifted in amusement. “And? How did you fare?”

“I held my own,” she said with a laugh. “Barely. I know she used a light hand.”

“It pleases me that you stayed standing,” he said, a note of pride in his tone. “Though I wish I had the chance to observe you. It would only have been fair, after the last session…”

She turned her head over her shoulder to peek at him, eyes bright. “Maybe next time. I do not have armor or experience – I can not put on the same type of show that you can, morconinya.” She paused, turning back to her desk. “Yet, there are other skills I think I would fare better at. Perhaps we can learn them together.”

He felt his face heat again and he started organizing a stack of correspondence on his desk, hiding his joy at the way she said the name she made for him. Only for him. And at her implication.

If we are deciding to learn new skills….

They fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire burning low in the hearth. Elaniel perched happily on a stool near the drafting table, pulling a blank sheet of parchment from a stack and smoothing it out with practiced hands. Gil-galad settled into his desk nearby, carefully picking up a quill to write a reply to a note from Anarion of Arnor. 

The evening stretched on in the quiet sanctuary of the study. Surrounded by the warmth of firelight and the soft rustle of parchment, they found something rare and precious: a moment of peace.

“Do you realize what they say about you?” she asked, her tone mischievous as she spun her chair to face him. 

Gil-galad paused, glancing at her with a confused expression. “Who?” 

He could feel that quiet peace they had built shattering, but he found did not care. The correspondence could wait…

“Oh, everyone,” she said with a wiggle of her eyebrows. “I hear things around Lindon.” She pretended to assess him, setting her pencil down. “I confess, I do not know if all I hear is true.”

He laughed, the deep sound bouncing off the walls of the study. “And what things do you hear from everyone? That I have a tendency to chastise ambassadors? Because I assure you, that was necessary...”

Elaniel moved to the chair next to his desk, settling cross-legged on the velvet cushion, arranging her deep blue skirts on her lap. She tapped a finger to her chin in mock thought. “Mmm, nothing about that. I have heard that your hair shimmers in the darkest hours of night because the Valar granted you a gift – you can absorb the radiance of the stars. I am told this is how you received the name Gil-galad, but I confess the story does get murky from there.”

He sighed, running a hand through his thick, dark hair as if to shield it from scrutiny. “That is not how-- it is hair. Normal hair.”

Elaniel smiled again, her tone still teasing as she reached out to play with a few long stands that had fallen over his shoulder. “Ah-ah, I have not inspected it thoroughly and it is not yet the deep night, so I can neither confirm nor deny the claim. And anyway, why ruin the mystery? Alenya told me she overheard two soldiers debating whether your crown is enchanted to make you appear more graceful. And taller,” she added as an afterthought.

Gil-galad tilted his head, allowing her to brush her hands along his neck, sweeping the rest of his hair over his shoulder. Her fingers carded through the dark strands gently and he leaned toward her, chasing the feel of her hands without realizing it. “First starlit hair and now enchanted grace?”

“And height. According to some, yes, that is the report,” she said with mock seriousness, tucking a lock firmly behind his ear. He fought not to shudder at the touch as she traced her finger down his neck before returning to his hair. “I did not say that I endorsed these observations. I believe you come by your height honestly.” 

“Well, I’ll be sure to let Círdan know I owe my ‘grace’ to him yelling at me for slouching when I was younger.” Her fingers brushed the tip of his ear again as she wound another strand around her finger and his eyes fluttered closed. 

“After watching you spill a full inkpot in the workshop – all over my latest sketches and your own robes, may I add – I do not know that you should thank anyone for grace you do not have…” 

“I find myself more prone to accidents around you than others, ilmarënín,” he said with an amused huff. “Though I can not imagine why I am so distracted—”

She moved fluidly, rising from her chair, and Gil-galad did not have time to register what she was doing before she was already sitting sideways in his lap. Elaniel gripped his forearms, steadying herself as her skirts cascaded across his legs, deep blue silk covering them both.

They both paused for a moment, grey eyes meeting brown. He could feel his heart pounding as he forced himself to breathe steadily, to ignore the heat starting to coil low in his stomach. 

Elaniel grinned at him, her shoulders moving in a small shrug. Her cheeks were bright red, and that same lock of hair that always escaped her bun had fallen over her forehead.

And whatever thin thread of resolve he had snapped. 

In one swift motion, he lowered his head and kissed her. It wasn’t tentative or uncertain. She had quite literally landed in his lap, and in doing so, erased his hesitation. The soft silk of her dress felt cool as his hand slid to her hip, but he could feel the heat of her skin as he pulled her closer.

They had kissed several times by now. Tender moments under the stars. A stolen embrace in his study. 

That was not this.

The fire cast flickering light around the room, making her eyes shine. He could feel her breath quicken as her arms wound around his shoulders, drawing herself up against him to kiss him again. Her hands tangled in his hair as she shifted her legs to bracket his thighs and now she was higher up than he was, craning down to grab his chin and tilt his head up for her. She moved like she was a wild thing finally released. 

As she was, judging by the – quite pleasing – noises she made. Each time he touched her, hands roving over her back, her hips, her waist, up her sides, she moaned for him. Small, contented sounds from the back of her throat, humming into his skin. All he could focus on was learning how to make her moan again. 

Elaniel had not stilled either, kissing down the column of his neck, fingers grazing his jaw. Breathing softly, she kissed his ear, nibbling gently on his earlobe before kissing her way to the tip of his ear. He rewarded her with a shuddering moan of his own, pulling her tighter against him. Her hips started to roll against him and he moaned again. He felt the tight heat in his core spread.

If I do not stop….I will not be able to stop.

To his own irritation, he pulled back first.

“It is late,” he whispered, craning back to look at her. 

“I have time,” she whispered back playfully, her fingers still curled in his tunic. “And yet,” she sighed. “And yet you are right,” she whispered, planting a small kiss on his temple before untangling herself from him. He immediately missed the warm weight of her and he bit back a sigh. She let her fingers trail down his arm before calmly – how is she calm right now? – returning to her desk and picking up her pencil again. 

He forced himself to pace his breathing as she tilted her head to look back at him. He was slouching in his chair with his tunic askew, hair tangled. He could tell he looked half-debauched.

Her eyes were still bright with mischief and something else. Something he had never seen in her before. “Do not become too accustomed to winning, morconinya.”

//

Gil-galad rode alone, the rhythmic clatter of hooves blending with the soft murmur of the river that ran alongside the path to the Grey Havens. Overhead, the cries of gulls echoed faintly. As he rounded a bend, his gaze drifted to one of the distant watchtower sites. The scaffolding looked delicate against the dense green of the forest, and he could see the builders at home with their craft. Pride swelled in him as he softly pulled his horse back to the trail. The watchtowers were beautiful, and they reminded him of her. 

After following the trail up a small rise, Gil-galad entered the workshop, the familiar salt air surrounding him. The scent of cedar dust. A long table was spread with tools, curls of shaved wood littering the table.

One of the first places I found safety… 

Círdan had always been a steady guide—a father in all but name. And while Gil-galad’s thoughts spun in circles, Círdan had always calmly pointed toward surefooted paths. He had a way to simplify the complex. 

 Círdan stood by the window, gazing out at the sea, his silver hair catching the light.

“You’re troubled, High King,” Círdan said without turning.

“I have been shattering the very alliances that I am tasked to create, unable to unify the elven realms, much less the kingdoms of Men. My political opponents are recklessly using the troubled history of Noldor and Sindar to drive division at the one time I need unity most. And because of it, we may all fall to darkness.” He paused. “Oh. And half of my days revolve around trade routes for grain.”

He heaved a deep, shuddering sigh, soft brown eyes vulnerable as he stared at the man who all but raised him. “Why would I be troubled, Círdan?”

Círdan turned, his eyes solemn but his voice light. “Anything else? Groundshakes? Invasion by the Dwarven kingdoms across the mountains? Have the Valar finally raised the sea?”

“If there is a checklist, all three are likely to be next.” Gil-galad sighed, stepping closer. He hesitated, running a hand through his dark hair. “The Sindarin elves. Or rather, Oropher and Amdír. They resist my efforts to unite us. And I…I would seek your counsel. Both as a mentor and as a leader of the Sindar. I cannot afford to lose their loyalty.”

Círdan gestured to two chairs by the window, where the sea breeze drifted through. Gil-galad obeyed, sitting heavily as his shoulders slumped, resignation in every line of his face.

Círdan studied him for a long moment. “You speak of loyalty? What does loyalty mean to you?”

The question gave Gil-galad pause. He frowned slightly. “Reliance. Confidence that they will stand with us and not abandon us when our need is greatest.”

“You speak as though you already know their choice, Erienion,” Círdan said, lowering himself into the other chair. “Have they given you cause to doubt them?”

“Not directly. But they do not hide their disdain for the Noldor. The wounds of the past run deep.”

Círdan’s expression softened. “What purpose does it serve to dwell on that past?”

“It serves to remind me why they refuse to offer me their loyalty now. They murmur that the Sindar realms will not trust a Noldo king.” Gil-galad frowned.

“Perhaps. But you can not stop being a Noldo, just as they can not stop being Sindar. Is your fight truly with them, I wonder? Who do you seek to defeat?”

Gil-galad blinked and his brow furrowed, surprised by the shift. “My fight is against Sauron.”

“Then do not make Oropher and Amdír your enemies,” Círdan said firmly, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees. “Even if they doubt you, even if they disobey you. Your task is to stand against the Shadow. Do so, regardless of who stands with you.”

The words sank deep into Gil-galad’s chest, but he found a kernel of annoyance there. “I do not understand why they will not stand with me. I have offered them strength. Unity. Protection.”

“And still they hesitate,” Círdan said gently. “Because what you offer, they cannot yet see. The Noldor have made offers before...the Sindar remember.”

“I can not bear the sins of all the High Kings before me,” Gil-galad said quickly, irritation laced in his tone. “I have followed through on my promises. I have been true to my word in every way. What else must I do to show them I am not Fëanor?”

“You can listen,” Círdan replied simply, with a small shrug. “It is the one thing you have not yet done. Not just to Oropher or Amdír, but to those among their people who speak plainly. Elaniel, she is a Sindarin woman, yes? She seems to have a frankness about her, one shared by our kin.” Círdan’s eyes glittered.

And you know of her…..how do you know of her, old man? 

I think he gossips with Ossë and Uinen through the waves.

Gil-galad smiled despite himself. “She does. Though I fear her temper and, ah, way with words can rival my own. She may not offer the most prudent political advice…and I will be tempted to take it anyway.”

“Temper can be tempered,” Círdan replied, his tone lightening. “And she seems to be learning that balance, from what Elrond has shared. Perhaps you could learn it too.”

Ah, so then nothing so poetic as Ossë and Uinen. Just gossiping with Elrond. 

Of course it was Elrond…

Gil-galad’s own problematic (part) Maia. 

“I think,” Círdan continued, “that she speaks to you with openness because she trusts you enough to do so. And because you have allowed her space to trust you. Perhaps it is time to offer the same space to the other elven kings.”

Gil-galad stilled, absorbing the advice. He found he often did not feel heard. Or certainly not heeded, despite carrying the burden and authority to lead. 

Perhaps Oropher and Amdír felt the same. 

The two sat in silence for a moment, the sound of the waves filling the space between them. 

Finally, Círdan spoke again, his tone softer. “Ah, I did wish to tell you,” he smiled faintly, his eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. “If you’re waiting for Ulmo himself to come out of the water and bid you to wed her, I must warn you, such sightings are extremely rare.”

Gil-galad blinked at the change in topic. "Wed her?" he repeated, as if the words themselves were in a different language. He quickly turned his gaze out toward the distant sea, as though it might offer him some escape from this conversation. 

He knew it wouldn’t. 

“I don’t…”

Círdan, ever calm, only raised an eyebrow. "It is written across your face, plain for all to see—though I imagine Elaniel sees more than the rest of us. Your next step is simple. So see it done.”

Still unable to meet his mentor’s eyes, Gil-galad sighed. "I care for her,” he finally admitted, his voice low. “Deeply. But the timing is…impossible. If I ask her to wed me, as I desperately wish to do, I’m unsure how to tell her to plan my funeral in the same breath. It is not simple.”

"And yet, it is simple," Círdan replied, tone unyielding. "Your heart is hers. Your choice is made. What action will you take?”

Gil-galad stared at his Círdan, his face lined with worry. “My fear is that no path I choose will…” He shifted uncomfortably. “I am unsure. What is best. For her.”

Círdan smiled, his eyes full of starlight as he clasped a hand to Gil-galad’s shoulder. “Ask her, Ereinion. Not what is best, but what she wishes. Do not choose for her. Choose with her.”

Gil-galad breathed in deeply, nodding his head. Círdan was right. Elrond was right. His heart told him it was right.

Why can I not simply allow it to happen? 

With a deep inhale, Gil-galad stood. “Thank you, Círdan. As always, your words ring true. I will…consider it.”

All I ever do is consider it.

“There is one more thing…” Círdan rose swiftly, walking to his large desk in the corner. He grabbed a scrap of paper and began writing quickly. “Rúmil has some obscure collections of poetry focused quite intently on, ah, couples. I’ve written the names of some of the more tasteful volumes housed in your library. They may prove enlightening.” 

Several thoughts bounced in Gil-galad’s head at once as he felt his eyebrows raise.

More tasteful volumes? There are less tasteful volumes? 

Why does he know what books are in my library? Why do I not know what books are in my library?

…….are they illustrated?

“Ah.” Gil-galad kept his face impossibly still as he accepted the scrap of paper. Resisting the urge to glance at it, he tucked it into his robes as he turned to leave the workshop. 

“Mae glenno, Ereinion,” Círdan called out as Gil-galad mounted his horse, his voice still tinged with amusement.

//

It was chaos.

Elaniel stood in the center of the village, roaring flames almost drowning out the relentless growls of approaching orcs. The air reeked of smoke and blood.

She moved through the wreckage of a crumbled wall, her face streaked with soot and resolve. A child cried out, cowering beneath a collapsed beam. Elaniel jerked around, glancing over her shoulder as the orcs closed in. Her eyes were steel as she dove toward the child, shielding their tiny form as a massive orc bore down on them both with a twisted, serrated blade.

“NO!” his voice carried, shrill and desperate against the crackling flames.

From a distance, Gil-galad reached out, but he could not reach her in time. She dissolved in front of him and he felt the world shift.

He was on a battlefield now, the ground beneath his feet littered with ash and mud and blood. He could hear the dying groans of Elves and Men around him, the grunts of orcs roving across the field to find and kill remaining survivors as dusk fell. A Man he did not recognize, but clearly a strong fighter with the bearing of a king, lay crumpled next to him. The blade of his sword was broken in pieces, the hilt falling from his hands. 

A great shadow loomed over them — Sauron. His armor gleamed like blackened steel in the dying light. Something bright glowed in his hand.

Gil-galad spun Aeglos in an arc, sharp blades whirling as he aimed for a joint in the Shadow’s armor, but he was not fast enough. A gauntleted hand snatched out, gripping Gil-galad by the throat, lifting him in the air. He could not breathe as the metal seared into him, as the silver plates of his armor melted through his gambeson and into his flesh. He heard agonized screaming — the loudest death knell he had heard in over three thousand years of his existence — and wondered where it came from.

Then he realized the sound had been ripped from his own burning throat. 

The world flickered, bathed in a white heat he could not escape. 

—

Gil-galad woke with a sharp intake of breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. His rooms were quiet, the light of the moon barely breaking through the windows. He panted, bare chest heaving, as he sat up. Night air brushed over his fevered skin from the open window, but he barely felt it. His hand jumped instinctively to his throat, but his skin was cool and whole. 

The pain of searing metal. The pain of watching Elaniel as she faced death

He could barely breathe. 

Gil-galad stared at the empty space before him without seeing, his heart gripped in a fear he did not know how to name. 

He did not fear pain. He did not fear death. 

But he feared what he had just seen. 

He rose abruptly, walking to the balcony. Through his life, he had found comfort in starlight. The stars simply were. They offered him no answers, but also asked him no questions. They gave him space to think. To examine how he felt.

Leaning against the railing, he closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. His hands sought the cool stone as though it might ground him.

The vows of Men said “until death,” and death or divorce released them from their oaths. But the Eldar did not make oaths lightly. They wed once, and their vows were unbreakable, even beyond death. Partners would be reunited in the Undying Lands, to live together until the remaking of the world. 

If they said their vows now and he were slain, Elaniel would be left alone in Middle Earth until she came to him in Valinor. They would reunite, yes, but she might spend Ages alone, parted from him in a land stained by grief and a growing darkness. The darkness he fell trying to defeat.

I cannot make her my widow before I make her my wife. I cannot. 

A question came, unbidden, from a frightened corner of his mind: Could I live with her death? The image of Elaniel falling beneath the blade of an orc haunted him. 

The answer came quickly, pain lancing through him: No. I cannot. 

He stared up at the stars, hoping that, just this once, they would give him an answer. As his thoughts deepened, a peculiar sensation brushed against his mind. Gil-galad froze, recognizing the faint touch of another’s thoughts. It was not deliberate — elves rarely opened their minds to another without the intent to share thoughts — but ósanwe could sometimes manifest without warning.

He caught a fleeting image: The edges of the vision shimmered with the golden warmth of dreams. Elaniel was carving a simple wooden horse, her expression soft. He could not see the child for whom she crafted the toy, but the knot in his chest tugged at the sight of her.

The image faded as quickly as it had come. His eyes fluttered as he came back to the present. She is dreaming, he thought gently as he smiled. He hoped her dreams were always so peaceful. Even in her sleep she can not stop creating. 

And then – finally, under the silver light of the stars – the truth of it settled over him.

Our fëa are bound. 

Vows or not, they were connected. The tugging in his chest would be unbroken by time or distance or death. It would gnaw at them both until Arda was remade.

If he fell, she would feel it. If she fell, he would follow. His early resolve to protect her seemed almost laughable now.

Ah, yes, my sound strategy to keep her safely separated from me by visiting her workshop and kissing her as often as she will allow.

He turned back into the study, his eyes falling on the scattered plans and documents that spoke of war and alliances, of a future that seemed ever more dangerous. He sank into the chair, his head falling into his hands. 

I am a fool.

//

“So, I think we have reached the point where we should discuss it,” Gil-galad said suddenly one evening, looking across the study. ‘Or, more plainly, we are well past that point.”

“Mmm?” Her eyes were still firmly glued on her paperwork.

He had not fully captured her attention. She always murmured when she did not focus – or when she was too focused. 

“Elaniel?”

“Hmmm?” 

He arched an eyebrow, a glint in his eyes. She looked very distracted. Beautiful. Focused on applying her formidable talents to her work. 

But very distracted. 

“Elaniel, I suggest we outfit the barracks with platters of cake, replaced daily.” He kept his voice steady, despite the glint of mischief in his eyes — a glint she would not notice, because she did not look up at him, as he had predicted. “Raspberry is preferred by the Lindon archers, to my understanding, though the Silvans from Greenwood will accept plain if there are no other options. The Edain have no preference as long as it is far too sweet for elvish tastes. “

“Mmm,” she murmured in absent agreement, turning from the worktable to search through a small pile of scrolls on the bench next to her.

Does she think she agreed to the cake or the archers, I wonder. 

Gil-galad could not stop himself from smiling as he leaned back, appraising her. He waited patiently, studying the column of her neck, that same lock of hair that always fell out of her bun, as though a few strands had been cut too short. The curves of her body, occasionally hidden behind the leather apron she wore on her worksites, were now highlighted in firelight. The soft glow illuminated her sky-blue dress from behind and he could see the silhouette of her body.

“Elaniel,” he kept his voice as flat and uninterested as he could. “My question is relatively urgent, I find.”

She didn’t look up but moved back to her worktable, her eyes narrowing. She was flipping between two pages, confusion on her brow. 

Then, as if her brain had simply needed a few more moments to catch up, she looked up from the drawings in her hand. “Did you just ask me a question about cake?”

He laughed loudly, unable to contain the joy that she caused to well up inside him. He stood from his desk and moved around it, walking toward her. 

“Yes, I did.”

Elaniel’s eyes flicked to the side, her brow furrowed. “I’ve missed something. Why are you asking about cake?”

“Because you were not paying attention, and I want you to hear me very clearly the first time I tell you I love you,” he said smoothly, as if discussing the weather, as he stood in front of her. 

“I thought it best, rather than risk confusion.” He lazily waved a finger back and forth in the space between his chest and hers. “The kind of confusion that is happening right now,” he huffed slightly. 

She cocked an eyebrow at him, and he felt the tugging in his chest pull harder. He would have fallen to his knees if he was not fighting the pull. 

“So, I will state it plainly, Elaniel.” He scooped up her hands. “I love you, deeply, in a way I have never loved another being. I hope you feel the same. But if you do not, I accept your choice, and we would not need to speak of it again.”

Another moment. 

And then…

he waited 

through 

the longest pause 

he had ever 

experienced 

in the entirety

of his already

long life.

Until Elaniel burst out laughing, tugging her hands from his to throw her arms around his shoulders. Her body melted into his as his hands settled on her hips. “You hope I feel the same? Hope?” Bright gray eyes peered up at him, her voice light. “Do you think I often let strange men lurk in my workshop claiming to seek solitude? Or to watch the stars? Or your study…” She blushed furiously.

Gil-galad had the good sense to dip his head in a bashful apology as he felt his cheeks redden at his own insecurity and hesitation. He pulled her closer, hands settling in the small of her back, pressing her against him.  

“It is upsetting that you do not realize we are already in a committed relationship, Ereinion.” She narrowed her eyes in an imitation of anger as she swatted playfully at his shoulder. “And then — then! — to say you wanted to avoid confusion! By talking about archers and cake? You are the most infuriating man…” 

He smiled patiently, brown eyes crinkling as he let her finish her tirade. He knew her well, and he knew how this conversation would end. 

The joy was in getting there.

Elaniel ended her mock outrage in a huff. “Of course I love you,” she whispered softly, fingers playing with a long strand of his hair, smoothing it over his shoulder. “I’m saddened you had any room to question it, when I feel it so strongly,” she said, pressing her hand against his chest. 

“Why didn’t you say anything,” he murmured. “If you felt it too…” 

He had held himself back for so long. He had held back so much. And she…

“Oh,” she said quietly, a small smile on her lips. “I thought we might…it was clear we...Our people don’t wed in times of war…I thought we would continue as we have until we decided the time was right,” she ended awkwardly as she blushed, her cheeks turning bright red.

He blinked. 

She smiled at him. 

He blinked again. 

Too many ideas bounced in his mind at once. He wanted to scream, to kiss her, to marry her immediately, to mutter against her lips and ask why this had taken them so long – why did this take so long? – to mourn the time he had wasted, to laugh until he cried, to throw something (most likely at himself or in a sparring ring), to pick her up and take her to his bedroom.

I am a fu–

She craned up on her toes, pulling him down by the nape of his neck, capturing his lips in a kiss, her hands fisting in his hair again.

He found he no longer cared, because they were together now. 

And that was all that mattered. 

 //

--- Author's Notes:

A few notes, since I feel I threw in some context and insults between characters that don't quite hit right:

The Noldor are notorious for being Kinslayers. They killed other elves - in multiple incidents - and famous Noldo Fëanor's life could be subtitled "Elves behaving badly," or even "Fëanor, NO!"

While not all Noldo are related to Fëanor's line, if there's one thing a Noldo can and WILL do, it's fight you.

The Sindar are notorious for not liking the Noldor because of the aforementioned "they slaughtered us to steal our boats and also killed us multiple other times" situation. But they have also needed the Noldor to support them and provide protection. Which the Noldor did.

Gil-galad's quip about walls is referring to Doriath, a Sindarin realm that was protected by a magical barrier put up by a part-Maia (Elrond's momma) using a Silmaril. From Gil-galad's point of view, the Sindar used the Girdle of Melian to hide from the Shadow in safety while the Noldor and other realms fought battles and died without their support or protection.

Gil-ga-daddy is noting their tendency to hide until they are forced to fight, while firmly arguing the time to fight has come.

Círdan is a Sindar man, and had his own Sindarin realm before it was destroyed. He is one of the oldest elves, and he took in Gil-galad and his mother while their city fell. While we do not get much of his relationship with Gil-galad in the books, it would be easy to suggest their relationship is similar to Elrond and Aragorn's -- a mentor figure who took in a young man to keep him safe.

Laws and Customs of the Eldar is an in-universe document that states that two elves can marry immediately if they have "bodily union." So basically, if they had sex in this scene, they would have been married by the end of it -- and they both know this. I am working to keep this novella relatively canon-compliant, so they aren't going to have sex until they are ready to be married. (They're gonna have sexy smutty times before then, tho, don't fear).

//

✨ Star and Stone: Complete Chapter List

Ch. 1 of 12: Between the Mountains and the Sea

Ch. 2: Mirrored

Ch. 3: Fair and Free

Ch. 4: Countless Stars

Ch. 5: Silver Shield

You are here -> Ch. 6: Preparations

Ch. 7: Where the Shadows Are 🔥 [Explicit scene]

Ch. 8: Long Ago He Rode Away

Ch. 9: Wherever the Need is Greatest

Ch. 10: Where He Dwelleth, None Can Say

Ch. 11: Of Whom the Harpers Sing 🔥 [Explicit scene]

Ch. 12: Last High King of the Elves of the West

If you enjoy this, check out ✨The Director's Cut✨ masterlist with quick links to all my TROP/LOTR content and AO3 profile.

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Law and Order - A Once In A Blue Moon Story

Part I

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader

Description: When a blind date leads to disaster, you're almost ready to give up on men. Until he sits down on the bar stool in front of you. This man is different - sensual, gorgeous, confident. He makes you want to live a little on the wild side. What do you do when a night you don't want to forget turns into a forbidden relationship by light of day? How do you cope, especially when he doesn't seem to want a thing to do with you?

Warnings: Rough sex, illicit relationship, dom/sub overtones, toxic relationship, inbalance of power in the work place

Word Count: 5766

Author's Note: Hiya lovelies! It's been a while since I've posted a story on here. I kind of lost my muse and had to find her, and my love for writing all over again.

Thanks to @horseshoegirl @sarahsmi13s and @desert-fern for chatting with me about this story and making sure I'm handling all of the things which happen in the best way I can!

This is going to be a multi-part story. Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged!

AO3: Cross-posted here!

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Part I

The noise washes over you in waves, inane chatter and shrieking from the velvet booths lining the walls, combined with the genteel clacking of cutlery against china in a migraine-inducing din. The bar you’re in is popular, with tables occupied from wall to wall. Normally, you’d consider yourself fortunate to be seated at one of them. There’s one reason why you’re not. Blind dates have never gone well for you. Either your dates are drab and dull, or you’ve been partnered with the worst men on the planet. Rude, boorish, vulgar, you name it, you’ve been on a date with a man bearing the unsavory trait. Tonight’s date isn’t shaping up to be any better.

You’re sitting at the tiny bar-style table playing with the wine in your glass, watching the carnelian liquid slosh as the liquid warms by the second. Your attention is completely on the droplets of wine sliding down the sides of the glass. Your date could care less. He doesn’t seem to notice your boredom or frustration. In fact, you’re not sure he’s even looked at you all night. He’s chattering about something involving stocks and bonds, the details so boring your eyes nearly roll back into your head while peering over the rim of his pint glass at every cocktail-dress-clad girl in sight. Drinks at this swanky bar were supposed to turn into dinner. You’re not sure this date is going to go that far.

Moreover, you’re not sure you want it to. You’re on this date as a favor for a friend. She’d sworn up and down that this guy was a real gem when she was setting you up with him. She’d spent days talking him up, pointing out how kind and hot he was. Sure, he hasn’t been the worst date you’ve been on. He is easy on the eyes, and nice at first impression. But he isn’t anything special. Maybe you have loftier expectations for your relationships than most. Or maybe you just want to go on a date where you can have a conversation, not be talked at in a mockery of one. In any case, you don’t find yourself too disappointed. You’re starting a new job in the morning and you should be fresh for your 8 AM orientation time - an early night would have been your preference. But your watch says it is already past 7 PM and getting later by the minute. This man can’t seriously think he’s so suave, can he? He’s been sending you alluring gazes and smug grins all night long, uncaring of your silence.

“So, whattaya say to skipping dinner and heading back to my place for the rest of the night?”

You’re not sure you heard him right. Mind churning, you sip on the wine, barely tasting the liquid. You’re not sure what he expects. Did he expect you to jump him the minute he offered? You’re resettling your mental estimation of his intellect downwards by the minute.

“I’m awfully hungry,” you demur. “Dinner sounds pretty good to me.”

“I’ve got something that’ll fill you up back at my place.”

His voice is greasy enough that you feel a little disgusted just hearing it. 

“Yeah?” You make your voice breathy like you’re a little turned on by his display. You lean forward, knowing the deep vee of your dress is showing off the slightest hint of the lace edging your bra. He smirks pompously, chest-puffing outward, eyes tipping to your exposed cleavage like iron ore to a magnet. He has the audacity to lick his lips, and while before you would have let him down gently, now you want to hit him where it hurts - his ego.

“Well, I hope you enjoy it all by yourself.” Your grin is sharp. “Like you probably have been every night for the last few years of your life.”

He looks a little like he’s been slapped, this finance bro, with his lips gawping unflatteringly.

“Do you have any idea who I am in this town?” He’s turning red under the collar, eyes bugging out.

“Nope.” You say the words flippantly, sipping on the last inch of the red wine at the bottom of your glass. You may not like the man, but he has good taste in wine.  “Nor do I care to.”

You lean in then, your off-putting grin widening across your cherry lips.

“I have no interest in getting to know a pompous, over-blown man-child who loves to flaunt their success in other people’s faces. So no. I won’t be coming home with you for a night in. I think I’d throw up if I saw the ‘something that fills me up’ you’ve got over there.”

He’s so angry, his face screws up at your words, the flush creeping up to his face.

“Bye-bye, now!”

He nearly knocks over a waitress and two fellow patrons on his way out of the door, sputtering impotently the entire way.

You’re still chuckling to yourself ten minutes later when a fresh glass of wine is set in front of you. 

“That was artfully done.” You startle a little at the words, your head whipping up so fast that your neck hurts at the sudden motion. The new man settling into the barstool before you is a cut above the gentleman you spoke to. Your face must show some confusion because he continues, “I saw you chase that guy away.”

He’s gorgeous, broad shoulders clad in a perfectly fitted suit. Every inch of his appearance screams luxury and class, from his auburn hair to his well-groomed mustache. He’s got long-fingered hands, one holding a cut crystal glass holding amber liquid, the other bearing a signet ring on the index finger as it rests on the table between you. There are eyes on him from all over the bar, and yet he doesn’t seem to notice. His whiskey eyes settle only on you like you're all he wants to see.

“Thank you.” You grin, sipping on the wine, the rich red liquid delicious on your tongue. “But it was necessary, I’m afraid.”

You nearly gag just thinking about the last words that idiot said to you before he left. At least you had the good sense to cut him off before he tried to strong-arm you into getting in bed with him.

“I kind of overheard what he said.” This stranger is smirking, confidence exuding from every pore. You’re drawn by his easy demeanor, as much as you are by his opening words. Hopefully, they’ll lead to an actual conversation. “It’s obvious he has no idea how to get to know a beautiful woman like yourself.”

“Is that so?” You lean forward again, wondering if a flash of your cleavage will take him in. But he doesn’t take the bait you’re presenting so alluringly. All he does is take off the suit jacket he's wearing, revealing the tanned vee of his neck in a white button-up shirt. You have to hide your hungry glances behind the rim of your wineglass when he rolls the sleeves up to the crook of his elbow.

“Yeah, sweetheart. I’d much rather get to know you instead.” He leans forward too, and as he does, you see gold glinting from between his pecs.

“I promise I’m nothing like that idiot you chased away with your cherry-lipped smile and acid words.”

You shrug, running a finger over the rim of the glass. “I don’t know anything yet.”

He shrugs then, sipping on his drink nonchalantly. You drag your eyes up and down his person. He lets you check him out with good grace, a smirk tipping his lips up and eyes hot as they return the languid glances. “But maybe, just maybe, I’d like to.”

As he’d introduced himself to you, Bradley is a breath of fresh air. You find yourself on the edge of your seat, hanging on his every word. He’s flirty, kind, yet down-to-earth. He's a professional working in the city, loves his family and friends, and reads actual, genuine books. If only your friend had set you up with Bradley instead. Under his knowing gaze, you find yourself spilling things you’ve never told another soul. 

The crowd surges around you as the night deepens. But still, you stay, sitting on the stool, downing glass after glass of plush, rich reds and fruity, dry whites while wishing Bradley was drinking his whiskey off your lips. With each word shared, each story, the spark of attraction smoulders between the two of you. Between one trip to the bar and the next, he settles on the stool next to yours. 

If you thought he was breathtaking across the table, he's heart-stopping sitting next to you. His effect on you is worse because when he's close, you just have to look down to see the mile-long expanse of his legs, muscular thighs practically straining against the expensive wool blend of his trousers.

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong, beautiful.” His eyes are searingly hot a few inches away from you. He’s got an arm wrapped around your waist, a big hand splayed just under your breasts. “But I’d very much like to take you home tonight.”

You gasp at the feeling of his breath across your lips. One inch closer, and you’d be kissing him.

“I shouldn’t.” Your voice is quiet, a little hoarse from the alcohol, nonstop chatter and laughter. “I don’t usually go home with strange men at the bar, no matter how attractive they are.”

He smiles, tipping his head to the side. His voice is a rumble as he whispers into your ear, tone wheedling, his other hand trailing down the neckline of your dress, fingers hot over the delicate skin of your chest.

“I promise if you want me to stop at any time, I will. I’ll call you a cab and send you home with my number saved in your phone as soon as you say the word.”

You’re losing your words, your arguments at his voice. All the reasons why you shouldn’t go home with a near stranger dissipate with every minute you stare into his eyes. 

“Take me home,” You gasp, sucking in greedy breaths as he plays with your necklace. You knew he was tall when he walked away to get your new drink, but when he helps you off the stool and drapes his suit jacket across your shoulders, he dwarfs you easily. You have a sneaking suspicion you may be in trouble. 

He leads you out of the bar with a steady, warm hand at the small of your back. Despite the crowded streets, a taxi shows up the minute he raises his hand, power and confidence an aura emanating from him. The taxi ride to his apartment downtown is an alcohol-fueled swirl of sensation. Your focus is split between the broad palm splayed over your bare thigh and the filthy litany spilling out of his bitten lips. He keeps the words just barely audible, a placid grin on his face every time the cab driver looks back, and you’re fighting the urge to drag him into filthy kisses the entire way. 

Would you be able to taste the whiskey on his tongue? Or would he taste like the mints, sharp and peppery with an underlying hint of sweetness he’d popped as you left? You can’t know for sure, not until you’ve finally got him behind closed doors.

And what doors they end up being. When Bradley unlocks the doors and ushers you in, your jaw drops to the floor. His living room is a gorgeous, high-ceilinged room, with walls half distressed brick and half grey-toned wood panelling. The floors are soft, sandy wood. While you very much would like to see the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining two of the four walls, complete with a rolling ladder like you’ve only ever seen on television, your eyes are drawn to the massive windows showing off the beautiful San Francisco skyline, lit up in the night.

“Your apartment is beautiful.” 

“It’s not the only thing that is.” 

You whirl around at the words, fighting the heat threatening to overtake your face. If Bradley looked practically edible languidly sprawled over the barstool, long legs brushing against yours, he looks divine standing in his living room with his bright white shirt unbuttoned to his navel.

“I-I don't usually do things like this.”

You curl an arm around your waist, hugging yourself. Standing here in the center of his cookie-cutter-perfect living room, you feel like an outsider, like the speck of lint or dust spoiling the facade. You don’t belong here. You don’t deserve to stand opposite a man this beautiful, be propositioned or devoured by him. Yet when you glance upward, his face shows you nothing but heat and hunger.

“Shh, sweetheart.” The pet-name makes you shiver, gooseflesh forming on your bare arms and pimpling over your collar bones. “I know you don’t. But we have all night to figure out what you like. We'll go as slow as you need.”

You’re not sure what you’re looking for in his face. Reassurance? Compassion? Want? Hunger? You see all those things and more. He lets you stand there in silence, eyes drinking you in, comfortable just watching and being watched. The more you see, the more you can feel your mind change. With the haze of alcohol thrumming through your veins fading a little, your brain is making more decisions. It was lust, pure and simple which got you here. Now your brain has to decide what you want to do here. More and more, the decision seems to be following him, letting yourself fall. You’ve never been impetuous, not where matters of the heart are concerned. Maybe you should be for once. The words end up tripping off the edge of your tongue of their own volition.

“What if I don’t want to go slow at all?” 

You know what it means when a man smiles at you like that, eyes molten, tongue sliding out to wet his lips. He prowls forward then, feline grace rippling the muscles of his torso. His arms feel like silk over steel as they crush you to his chest. Your heart stutters, breath catching as he leans forward. But he doesn’t kiss you. He seems content to breathe you in, foreheads pressed together. His mustache traces ticklish and light over your upper lip with every breath. You want nothing more than to smash your lips to his.

“I bet you don't, beautiful.” His eyes sparkle in the darkness as he traces one calloused fingers over your lacquered lips. “But I get the feeling you don't know what you want. You've spent all night so far telling me you don't let people take you home on the first night. But here you are, practically gasping for every touch of my skin to yours. So what’s going on in that pretty little head?”

The words make you squirm a little, thighs rubbing together futilely.

“I wonder,” His tone goes soft and contemplative yet light as he slides his hand up the expanse of your soft thighs, tenderly squeezing the muscular flesh. “Were you searching for a man to take you in hand? Someone who would smack that pretty little ass when you're being a brat? Is that why you chased that guy away so easily? Did you know instinctively he wouldn’t be able to do that for you?”

When you moan, it feels like you've lost the game he started playing. But you're not disappointed, not when his lips quirked upwards in a proud grin. And not when you feel his finger sweep over the damp gusset of your panties, teasing and light.

“Fuck, I knew you'd be gorgeous like this.” 

You shiver against him, muscles trembling, fighting against the urge to move his hands where you want them most. But even the slightest motion has those big hands clamping down over your wrists or swatting at the meat of your thigh, just harsh enough that you jolt. Your head is spinning already. 

“You're so quiet, so compliant and obedient, my good girl.” You have to swallow your whimpers at the term of endearment. “I can’t wait to see how good you can be.”

You nod, maybe too eagerly, if the smirk taking over his face is proof. 

“See?” The phrase is almost mocking as he purrs, “So damned pretty and soft and sweet.”

Your voice shakes as you try to collect your composure, breaking despite all the force of your will.

“I'm not that sweet. I can be rude and domineering and brash.”

He chuckles, pointing to a dark hallway, branching off the living room.

“Go to my bedroom, sweetheart. Take that sinful little dress off and sit on the bed.”

You're so gone for this man already. You don’t know his last name, what he does for work, or anything important. But you don’t care. As you trot into his bedroom, all you can think about is how his lips looked as they said, “good girl,” and how desperately you want to be good for him. Your hands are rough as you tug at the suddenly constricting fabric of your dress. You want it off; need the suddenly scratchy fabric away from your skin. When the dress lands on the ground in front of the bed in a bundle of dark fabric, you feel like you can finally breathe.

“Such a pretty girl.” 

You startle at the whisper. You hadn't turned the lights on when you walked in, navigating in the half-light of the streetlights below. A switch clicks in the silence, and you're surrounded by a halo of light. Bradley's in the shadows still, and you can’t see even a glint of his eyes.

“Turn around, baby.” 

You feel exposed all of a sudden, wearing only your lacy bra, barely there panties, and heels. His voice seems to echo around you, muddled and sibilant as they murmur words - orders - your way.

“Hands on the bed frame, beautiful.”

You stumble over your own feet as you rush to follow his instructions. With your eyes next-to-useless in the cool darkness of the room, it feels like your other senses are in overdrive.

“You look hotter than sin standing there like that, gorgeous.” 

You can feel the puffs of his breath over your sensitized skin, the fine hairs covering your arms standing on end at his presence ghosting over you.

“Fuck, you’re so sweet, so compliant and obedient for me. Keep those legs apart for me, now.” 

He chuckles darkly, the sound deep and velvety soft. You have to fight your whine as your knees nearly buckle at the way he sounds.

“You like that?”

You whine when his big hand smooths over the expanse of your back. 

“I knew you’d like having someone tell you what to do. I knew you’d look delicious like this, spread out for me like that. Pretty girl, my pretty, pretty baby.”

Your brain fritzes out at those words, all higher-level thoughts blanking out at the possessive curl to his voice. Your prior dalliances - you'd never call them relationships because they were too short to be labeled as such - were never bold enough to become so possessive with you. You never thought you would like it. But hearing Bradley call you his, even when you know this is only for tonight, makes your toes curl and your panties uncomfortably wet.

“What happened to that fire, huh? What happened to the feisty little thing who sent a man away for asking you to hop into his bed on the first meeting?”

His words are a little mocking as those big hands smooth over your waist, plucking at the waistband of your panties.

“Bet his eyes would fall out of his head if he could see you standing here, just like this. With your pert little ass on display and your pussy all wet for me.”

You moan at the words, gasping at the feeling of his hands as they tug the lacy fabric down, flinching at the snap of the clasp of your bra as he pulls that away, too. Your skin flushes with heat at the feeling of the soft kiss he presses to the small of your back. But the tender teasing touches disappear shortly after. He leaves you standing there, wearing only your red-bottomed heels, aching for his touch, shivering as the cool air wafts over your heated skin. You have a feeling he’s still there, your ears picking up each infinitesimal rustle of fabric and soft brush of footsteps on the floor. He’s just left you standing splayed out for his own amusement. 

How is it possible for you to feel both turned-on and uncomfortably exposed at the same time? Your fingers ache from holding onto the smooth wooden surface of the bed frame. As your patience wanes, your fidgeting increases.

“Bradley?”

You’ve never heard yourself sound like this, plaintive and strung out, aching for someone else's touch. It feels like you’re breaking down walls you’ve never known you had put up. All you can do is hold onto the bedframe and pray you aren’t vulnerable with someone dangerous.

“Nuh, uh, uh, pretty.” The hushed admonishment comes with the press of lips against your shoulder blade.

“If you want me, then you have to tell me exactly what you want.”

You tremble at the words, grip tightening on the burnished wood until all you can feel is the tug of stressed muscles. You let your head fall until your hair is obscuring everything from sight. You’re not sure you can say these words, not without feeling horribly, uncomfortably exposed. 

“Touch me, please.” 

It’s the barest whisper, but you know he hears you. His hands are hot against your skin as they draw you up. You surrender to the sensations of his calloused fingers trailing over your stomach. They’re teasing and light as they shape your breasts, palms hot as they hold you close.

“Oh, baby, you feel better than I even thought possible.”

Pleasure sinks molten and sweet through your veins at the gorgeously rough purr in his voice. You sag against him, barely trusting in your limbs to hold you. You can feel his smile as he presses hot kisses down the side of your throat. The scratch of his stubble makes you gasp. With every press, the ache between your thighs intensifies even further. But Bradley doesn’t move his hands, no matter how you wriggle or try to push his hands down to where you so desperately need them.

“Please, Bradley.”

It feels like you’ve been begging for his touch forever when he finally moves. His hands twirl you around, and you find yourself crushed to his chest. His eyes are molten, prismatic as he tugs you close. It feels like you’re drowning in him. You curl your arms around his muscular neck, staring deep into his eyes as he peers at you.

“Please, what, baby?”

There’s a mocking tilt to the smug grin on his face as he looks you over.

“I told you what I need from you tonight.” 

You whimper at the words, trying to surge up, aching for some more contact from him.

“Kiss me.” 

“Good girl.” You’re not sure you’re ever going to get tired of hearing him call you a ‘good girl”. But then his lips cover yours, and you’re not thinking about anything but him. These kisses, just like all of the others tonight, are hot and claiming. You twine your fingers into the curls at the base of his skull, gasping at the press of his tongue.

“You’re such a good girl, sweetheart.” His lips slip down the side of your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse in a knee-weakening manner. “Mmmm, darling, do you want this to go any further?”

You nod, not trusting your voice to respond in anything other than a breathless, needy moan.

“Well, you know what you have to do, beautiful.”

You’re growling when you wrench his mouth back down to yours. “I just want you to make me cum.” You say the words between needy kisses, pushing the shirt up until you can finally wrest it off. The heat of his skin feels so good against your own. When you look up, the smile taking over his face is breathtakingly gorgeous, eyes blown wide as he lays you down on the pristine, cool sheets of his bed.

“You’re too beautiful to be real.” 

You shiver as he places a kiss against your sternum, open-mouthed and wet. The shiver turns into a moan when he wraps his lips around one taut nipple and sucks. Each rough pass of his tongue has pleasure coiling in the pit of your stomach. It feels like you’re searching for oxygen like you’ve never breathed it before when he finally pulls away. You’re half expecting him to tease you again, when he laves his tongue over the other, nipping and biting. Your moans spiral through the air. You know what he’s doing when he traces those kisses down your torso, but you don’t have the patience for any more teasing.

You tug him into a messy kiss. Your teeth clash against his somewhat painfully, but when he crawls over you, you can’t find it in you to mind.

“Baby, you have to let me make sure you’re ready.”  

“I don’t care.” You’re aware you sound like a complete brat, but Bradley seems endeared by it. He lets you manhandle him onto the bed, eyes shuttering as you settle on his lap, core settled over the sizable bulge in his trousers.

“I want you,” you’re practically sobbing as you grind down in his lap. “I’ve wanted you since you sat down on that bar stool.”

“Please.” It’s a desperate plea. “Stop teasing me. I’m ready.”

“Shh, beautiful. I’ve got you.” He smoothes a hand over the plane of your stomach, uncaring of all the places you hate about yourself. 

You can’t believe your eyes when he finally pulls the remainder of his clothes off. He’s golden and gorgeous, tan glowing as the moonlight loving highlights every muscle. You’re still not sure why a man like him wanted to take you home, not when he looks like he does. His hands smooth over you, parting your legs as he kisses you. Each press of his lips to yours are deep and tender. You search for his lips every time he pulls away and gasp when he nips at the pout on your lips in retaliation. You can feel the blunt head of his cock against your folds as he grinds into you, the rough slide of skin against skin easing as you grow wetter, needier beneath him.

When he presses into you, you nearly come at the first thrust. He’s big and thick, stretching you in a way you’ve never been stretched before. He settles into a languid pace. You feel claimed with each slow thrust, all friction and heat, pressure collecting at the pit of your stomach.

“Please,” you babble, pleading for him to continue, “Don’t stop, please.”

It feels like there’s lightning in your veins. Lightning which crackles and sparks until it feels like you’re one exposed livewire lying on the bed. He gathers you up then, settles you down on his lap, hands clamped on the corded muscle of his shoulders as you go ragdoll-limp in his arms.

“There” It’s a soft, sub-audible moan as he hits that sweet spot inside you that makes you see stars. He fucks you slow and sweet, right there, until you can barely feel your face and your eyes roll back in your head. You jolt when he brushes the pads of his fingers against your clit, massaging the hardened nub until you’re practically screaming his name. That’s how you cum, with soft kisses, shaking in his lap. His hands are big as they cradle your ass. You shiver as he thrusts half-a-dozen more times before finishing, his head resting on your sternum, breath hot against the sweat-drenched skin.

You slump to your side, boneless and exhausted, relishing in the cool press of the sheets. He slumps with you, still buried in you, closer than you’ve ever been to another person. You could drown in the molten sweetness in his eyes, the deep caramel depths drawing you in until it’s all you can see. He kisses you until your lips feel puffy and bruised. When he slips out of you, you ignore the mess, beginning your slow progress as you slide to the edge of the bed. He doesn’t stop you, long limbs sprawled over the sheets of his bed like a Greek god in repose.

He lifts his head, eyes blinking blearily, sleepily as you collect your clothes, pulling on each piece methodically. 

“What are you doing?” 

You flush in embarrassment. “I’m heading home.” 

You can hear the rustle of the sheets as you pull the wrinkled fabric of your dress on. His hands are hot as he turns you around. You’re unbalanced, only one heel on as you look into his eyes.

“You could stay, you know?”

You shiver, tugging him into one final, soft kiss.

“I could. But I won’t.” You step into the final heel before turning around again. His hands are gentle as they tug the zipper on your dress up.

“I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

Bradley nods, curls bouncing, throat working as he looks you over. You’re trying to look at anything but him, not wanting the temptation of his lean, muscular body.

“Be safe.”

Your Uber home is quiet, tense. Half your heart, it seems, is left in that posh bedroom, wrapped in cool Egyptian cotton, drowning in whiskey eyes. Your sleep is just as disturbed. 

You wake in the morning sweetly sore and groggy. But you can’t focus on a mind-blowing fuck, not this morning. Warring with exhaustion this morning as you take a tram downtown are your nerves. You’re nervous. This is the job you’ve been working towards your whole life. Call it fascination from a lifetime of watching legal dramas combined with a love for arguing and here you are. Three years of law school at Stanford and near perfect exam scores and here you are. Standing in a richly appointed conference room with five other rookie law school graduates waiting for orientation to start on your first day.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Law Firm of Kazansky, Mitchell, and Bradshaw.”

Your head seems to fly up at the words, and at first, you’re not sure whether you’re still asleep or drunk out of your mind. Because your eyes have to be deceiving you. There is no way Bradley is standing in the conference room with you. He’s flanked by a tall flaxen-haired man with a cocky grin and a buxom brunette in the snazziest pantsuit you think you’ve ever seen.

“I’m Bradley Bradshaw, senior counsel at the firm. My specialty is contract law. With me are my colleagues and fellow senior counsel, Jake Seresin, with a speciality of criminal law, and Natasha Trace, with a speciality in corporate law. We’re going to be your mentors at the firm. Let’s get one thing clear. We ask you all to jump, you ask us how high. Work hard, and we’ll have you taking cases of your own in no time.”

You feel like your skin is crawling with each word and each elapsed minute. Your palms are sweaty and your heart is racing as you distractedly count each minute until you’re left in a barren corner of the office in front of two empty cubicles with your training partner, a sweet-hearted brunette with a labrador retriever’s friendly personality named, Miguel “call me Mickey” Garcia. He’s already digging deep into the files Bradley handed over while you take a short walk to Bradley’s corner office. It’s just your luck you’d ended up having the man whose bed you were in last night as your mentor. And it’s just your luck that the first file you’d picked up had a post-it note on it asking for you to come by when you could.

Almost all the shades are drawn when you knock.

“Come in.”

He holds one of those long fingers up as he finishes up the conversation he’s having on the phone. You feel like you’re seconds away from being fired with every insolent look he sends your way.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Bradshaw?”

He smirks then.

“Yeah, I did.” He shapes your full name with his pouty, kiss-bitten lips, lips you bit last night, as he looks over you.

“Obviously you know nobody can know what happened between us last night.”

“Yeah, obviously.” You wrap your arms around yourself, pretending not to notice how your body aches at the sight of him, for want of him. “So what do we do?”

“Nothing,” He leans forward with a grin. “I'm not sure what last night was like for you, but for me, it was just like any other. I met a passably pretty girl at a bar and took her home. She left in the early hours of the morning after a mediocre fuck. That's it.”

You can feel rage rising, cold and sharp enough that it occludes the edges of the bleeding wound he’s caused with a few callous words.

“Now, I'm your mentor and boss. Professionalism is everything to me. My mom is the best lawyer I know, and one of the partners. She can’t know I fucked up so prodigiously with one of our rookies. And I will do anything to make sure she never does.”

It’s obvious last night meant little to him, much less than it meant to you. You wanted to track him down tonight, wanted to see if he would want to go out with you again. Obviously that isn’t an option anymore.

“Enjoy the files. Let me know if you or Garcia see something I didn't see in them. That will be all.”

Your head is reeling when you walk away, and you're quiet, withdrawn. Garcia doesn’t notice how your skin crawls with every footstep walking past the door of your small office or how you flinch at every laugh and loud conversation. Last night you were a nervous professional, worried about the job but hopeful for your date to go well. Now you’re the rookie who slept with her boss. You're his dirty little secret and he's yours. Your career, your life, and everything you've ever worked for hangs in the balance.

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